The Road Less Travelled By
by Bexi
Summary: Post SiB. When John begins to date Molly, Sherlock isn't sure what he makes of this situation. Of all the girls in London, why Molly? At least he won't forget her name, unlike that boring teacher's. John x Molly/Johnolly Sherlock x Molly/Sherlolly
1. Part I

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part I

...

John Watson was a patient man. It was a talent that he had managed to perfect over the years. It was also a talent that was extremely useful when dealing with the antics of one Sherlock Holmes. Others could not comprehend how he, a well accomplished and respectful doctor, could happily follow the man around from crime scene to crime scene. They also didn't understand how one man could take every small and unnoticed detail and make a thorough and alarmingly accurate deduction from it. John understood though. He knew why they were filled with conflicting emotions whenever Sherlock waltzed in and declared that everything they originally believed about this crime was false. They acted defensive and brash because they simply did not understand Sherlock and how his magnificent mind worked. They felt that it was seemingly impossible for one man to know so much from something as simple as a pocket watch or tarnished wedding ring. They were afraid, threatened even, by the concept that was Sherlock Holmes. It was a foreign concept to them. He was a foreign concept. John, however, looked at the world with an open mind. He had witnessed things in the war that he, once upon a time ago, would never have believed. The incredible acts of heroism that only seemed possible in those overly expensive movies were, in fact, an everyday realism. He had witnessed men easily sacrificing themselves for the safety of their troop. He, himself, had performed acts that saved hundreds of lives. It was second nature to him now. It was why he sneered whenever he heard comments about how no one in their right mind would put themselves between a grenade and a comrade and how it was nothing but stupid heroism. It caused his blood to boil when he heard his fellow comrades dismissed, as if their selfless acts of courage were nothing but a publicity stunt. Did they truly not realise what these brave soldiers were doing for their country? Some people were so closed minded and could not see past their own noses. That concept, just like Sherlock, was unfathomable to them. They dismissed these heroic acts as nothing but fiction, the same way they scorned Sherlock's intellectual deductions.

John clearly remembered the day he had met Sherlock for the first time. He had been wary when the other had immediately asked him where he was situated at before returning to London and how he had made this huge analysis from just merely observing him. However, that wary easily melted into admiration and sheer amazement. He held a huge respect for Sherlock, which he had no problem with admitting. He also knew that he would never understand how Sherlock's mind worked, however, that was the beauty of everything. Sherlock was his friend and still remained somewhat of an enigma to him. He enjoyed finding out snippets of information about Sherlock, usually coming from his older brother, which he did not know before (really, Sherlock - a pirate?).

Nevertheless, this did not stop him from wanting to throttle the man at times.

"You want me to do what?" he asked, Asda carrier bags still in his hand.

"John, are you really that simple-minded that you cannot comprehend a mere instruction when it is directed at you?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly, not looking up from the laptop.

John groaned as he put the shopping bags on the table, pushing a few jars of God-knows-what to one side, before putting the groceries away. "Understanding instructions, I can do," he stated, opening the fridge and rolling his eyes at a large toe that was pickling away inside a jar of vinegar. He proceeded to place the chilled products inside, deliberately leaving the bottom of the fridge empty for whatever body part would be housed there soon. "What I cannot do, however, is follow something that you're telling an empty room." John closed the fridge, turning his attention back to the bags. "You do realise that I haven't been here for the past hour, don't you? I've been shopping because, believe it or not, Sherlock, we need sustenance to fully function, or we're [me at least] are liable to perish away. We can't all live on crimes and fresh air."

"Don't be droll, John, it doesn't suit you."

Shaking his head, John finished in the kitchen and walked into the living room, subconsciously picking up newspapers and cut outs. "So what did you want then?"

Sherlock stopped typing and rummaged through a pile of papers next to him. "I need you to go down to Bart's and perform an analysis in my place. It's a simple procedure that not even you could fail at. Furthermore, Molly would be more than willing to assist you."

John stared. "Why can't you go?"

"I'm far too busy for such simplicities, John," he said, thrusting a piece of paper into John's chest.

John looked at the paper and knew instantly what it was that Sherlock required him to do. Usually he did not mind doing favours for Sherlock, but being expected to just drop everything he planned was just rude and inconsiderate.

"Too busy typing about a new type of tobacco ash that might be of interest to the tobacco nuts of the world?" John groaned, pocketing the paper. "And besides, has it ever occurred to you that I might actually have plans for tonight?"

Sherlock resumed his typing. "Please do stop pouting, John, because both you and I are fully aware that all you planned on doing tonight was sitting in front of the television, watching X-Factor and eating crisps, followed by a Doctor Who special and the consumption of three bottles of Stella Artois. Clearly obvious..."

John looked around and shook his head, swallowing a grimace as he thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He and Sherlock had always had this love-hate relationship. Sherlock loved being smug and right and John hated him for it. This sometimes caused John to have odd fantasies about punching Sherlock right in the face. He could fondly recall when Sherlock had asked that very thing of him … it was a God send and John enjoyed every moment of it. It was one of his happier memories that he brought up when moments like these happened.

"Fine," he said, turning to leave for Bart's Hospital.

"Buy Molly a coffee beforehand – she works much more effectively that way," Sherlock shouted back, not caring if John was still inside the room or not.

"Yeh, yeh," John groaned, walking down the stairs and leaving the premises. Now, all he hoped way that he had Sherlock's luck for taxis and that one would be waiting right around the corner, eager to pick him up the moment he called out.

Doubtful though…

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>First attempt at a Sherlock story. This idea was niggling at my brain, thus I decided to type it up and be rid of it. Hopefully my attempts at writing Sherlock aren't too bad - he's such a complex and difficult character to write.<p> 


	2. Part II

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part II

* * *

><p>Molly heaved an exhausted sigh as she roughly washed her hands, watching as the vibrant red substance swirled around the sink and then down the drain. She tugged both pairs of gloves off her hands, throwing them in correct receptacle before washing her hands once again. It was a habit that she had picked up a long time ago. Whenever she would perform or assist in an autopsy, she would wash the blood from her gloves, dispose of the gloves, gown and any other perishable clothing, and then wash again. It was a deep rooted fear that because her hands were covered in blood for long periods of time, the smell would absorb through the gloves and into her hands. Childish, she knew.<p>

The female stole a quick glance at the clock on the wall, emitting a groan as she saw how late it was - 7:45pm. Unfortunately for her, the pathology department at St Bartholomew's Hospital was currently understaffed at the present and she was required to work overtime, once again, in order to cover the excessive workload. It also did not help that one of the lab technicians had walked out after deciding that the job was putting far too much pressure on her and that her stomach could not handle the basic job requirements. Molly had sympathised with her, handing her a glass of water and rubbing her back, speaking gently as she waited for the nausea to pass. One really does need a strong stomach for this type of work and it is common logic that it isn't suited for everyone, just like most jobs really. She never saw the point in forcing yourself into doing a job where you are uncomfortable every other day. It truly was pointless. This is what Molly had told the lab technician. She also informed her that succumbing to sudden bouts of nausea was not something to be ashamed of and that she, herself, had actually fainted during her own work experience. She explained that it wasn't a clear cut sign that she wasn't suitable for the job and that she should do what she feels comfortable doing.

This was the sole reason why Molly had only just finished performing a post-mortem at this time, with no help and assistance whatsoever.

"I hope they find someone soon," she said, removing the blue cap from her head. She gave the room one last look over, making sure that everywhere was fully cleaned and sterile for the next time. Fully satisfied, she turned the lights off and locked the door behind her. All that was needed now was to secure all the other rooms and change out of her scrub suit, and then she would be free to leave the hospital. A smile touched her lips at the thought of going home. All she wanted was to sink into a hot bath with a glass of red wine before collapsing in her comfortable bed and sleeping throughout all of Sunday.

Molly suppressed a yawn as she removed the band from her hair, letting it cascade down her back. She fingered the delicate tresses and wondered whether it was worth having it cut. Her hair is the one thing that she hardly messed with, content to leave it in the limp style that she was now accustomed to wearing. Short hair is something that she was always fascinated with but was never brave enough to risk having it done, the fear of looking stupid causing her to push the thought to one side. Maybe it was time for a change? Who knows, it might even cause a certain someone to pay her a little attention. However, it could have the adverse effect and cause said certain somebody to point out all the faults to her choice, claiming that her face wasn't suited for such a style and that she now resembled an oversized lemming.

"Get a grip, Molly!" she chastised herself. "You told yourself to move on and get over this childish infatuation – now do it."

It was true. After the appalling display at that Christmas party, Molly decided that her new year's resolution was to let go of this crush she had on Sherlock. She knows perfectly well that he doesn't do feelings, relationships or anything remotely similar. It truly wasn't worth the pain and humiliation that she endured, even if he had been genuinely apologetic at the party. It was time to move on…

Finally reaching the lab, Molly was surprised (well, not really as she was actually used to it by now) to see John Watson sitting at a desk, a steaming cup in his hands and another beside him. His coat was hung on the back of the chair next to him and he was wearing one of the endless supplies of jumpers he had. Honestly, she had never known one man to wear some many different types of jumper. It was rather fascinating to see just how different he and Sherlock were, just in dress sense alone. Their odd friendship was truly endearing and rather humorous to witness, she decided.

"John, what are you doing here?" she asked, half expecting Sherlock to suddenly appear behind her and nonchalantly state that it was clearly obvious why they were in the lab. She certainly hoped that for once he was not here because it wouldn't help her plight if he was nearby.

John smiled. "Sherlock's orders, I'm afraid," he told her, removing the sheet of paper he had folded four ways before taking a moment to observe her appearance. He didn't need to be Sherlock to see the tired lines around her eyes, the dismal state her hair was and the blue scrub suit she wore. He furrowed his brows. "You were performing a post-mortem at this time of night?"

Normally, the morgue was open (Monday-Friday) between the hours of 09:00am and 4:30pm, with post-mortems usually performed during 09:00am-1:30pm. "Severely understaffed at the moment," she simply said. "We're currently waiting on Stephen's replacement, who should be starting here on Monday. You wouldn't have thought that it was so difficult to hire a fully competent pathologist, would you? I also suppose it doesn't help that my lab tech ran out on me either," she laughed, though the sound was hollow and fatigued.

John's smile faltered. While Sherlock was given full access to the lab and all the equipment, Stamford had made it perfectly clear that, due to hospital compliance and due diligence, he was to have some form of supervision. Unfortunately, it was also common knowledge within the hospital that Molly was one of the rare few individuals who could stand to be in Sherlock's presence for more than a few minutes, thus meaning that it was her job to oversee and authorise his work. John sometimes wondered whether Sherlock realised just how selfish he was being whenever he demanded that Molly sacrifice her free time to allow him full usage of the equipment, regardless of the time or her plans.

"So, what can I help you with then?" Molly asked softly, smiling slightly. "There must, after all, be a reason why you are here at this time of night. Is Sherlock here?"

Molly hesitated for a moment, subconsciously biting the lower part of her lips. Despite what Sherlock occasionally though, John wasn't an idiot and could easily see the reasoning behind Molly's behaviour. He was perfectly aware that Molly held Sherlock relatively high in her heart and that the feeling was completely unrequited. It pained him slightly to watch Sherlock coldly dismiss Molly time and time again, or to witness the consulting detective being even crueller by using her feelings as a form of manipulation. When she had inadvertently introduced them to 'Jim from IT', Sherlock immediately made his analysis quite clear. Gay. At the time, Sherlock had claimed that he was doing Molly a favour and saving her from any further heartbreak, that he was being kind. At the time, John had been inwardly furious with Sherlock, seething as he told the other than what he had done was most definitely not kind. However, John was now glad that Sherlock had done what he did because 'Jim from IT' turned out to be none other than Consulting Criminal, Moriarty. Who knows what might have happened to Molly, had Sherlock not pre-warned her. The thought made John's blood run cold.

"Just me, I'm afraid," he stated passively. He could have sworn he heard Molly mutter 'Thank God' under her breath. Maybe not though, he wasn't sure.

"Do you want me to help you with whatever orders you've been given?" she laughed, taking the seat next to his. "I'm pretty sure that you don't want to be here anymore than I do."

John pushed the other cup of coffee closer to Molly, the corners of his lips turning upwards. "Well, I've already missed the beginning of X-Factor."

Molly lifted the mug to her lips, savouring the taste of the sweet coffee and inhaling the rich, fragrant aroma. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm in the exact same position. I was supposed to be spending my evening drinking a bottle of merlot and praying that Little Mix wins the X-Factor."

John snorted. "No way, Marcus will win this. He's clearly a more talented performer than the others."

"You can't honestly believe Marcus will win, can you? Little Mix are great – besides, having a band win for once will be even more memorable."

John arched a brow. "No, I'm so confident that Marcus will win that I'm willing to be a tenner on it." And confident he was.

"You're on! Ten quid says that Marcus doesn't win," Molly smirked, downing the rest of her coffee.

"Deal!"

John found himself laughing at the ridiculous bet that he and Molly had made. It was childish, he knew, but also just a bit of fun with no real harm - he was going to earn £10 after all.

Finishing off his own drink, John explained to Molly what it was that Sherlock expected. True to his word, the task was not difficult at all. He required confirmation about whether or not there was a chemical substance found in a singular hair found at a crime scene. The police were convinced that the death had been caused through an allergic reaction; however, Sherlock immediately disagreed, stating that it was a deliberate act of poisoning that had cut the girl's life short. Sherlock was so confident that he was correct and merely wanted the proof to waft in the faces of those who refused to believe his words.

John worked as diligently as he could, following Molly's instructions whenever he needed them, which was remarkably often. He was, after all, a mere doctor. The tests that he was performing were the exact type that he would have just sent down to the labs, waiting patiently for the results while he enjoyed a cup of tea and slice of cake. Nevertheless, he found it rather thrilling being able to extract so much information from such a small piece of evidence. Another thing he found most fascinating was how different Molly was whenever Sherlock wasn't near her. It was almost as if she was an entirely different person altogether. No longer was she this meek little thing that stuttered and blushed at all the improper moments. It shocked him because he had never spoken to Molly without Sherlock being with close proximity and just expected the Molly he saw on a regular basis to be the real Molly. How wrong he was. How wrong indeed.

"Well, you can go back and inform Sherlock that, as usual, he was correct," Molly told him, removing the gloves and clearing away all the equipment they had used. She moved the microscope and carefully handed John the small glass tube that now contained the liquidised poison that was used in the crime. He smiled, thanking her as he pocketed the tube, and put his coat on.

He walked over to the door, holding it open as he waited for Molly to finish up and leave with him. She told him that he could go but he insisted on waiting for her. John was, after all, a perfect gentleman. Molly laughed as he exclaimed this, agreeing wholeheartedly with his self-proclamation.

A total of ten minutes had passed and both John and Molly were now ready to leave the hospital for the night. John realised that he had taken longer than he originally expected but this strangely did not bother him in the slightest. He rather enjoyed it.

"Molly?"

The brunette turned, stopping to answer John before she got into the taxi. "Yes?" she replied, curious as to what he wanted.

"I was just wondering," he began, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets. "Do you fancy going for coffee tomorrow? It's the least I can do, considering you were planning on leaving here at eight and it is now…" he looked at his watch, "…nearly midnight."

Molly glanced at John with a coy twinkle in her eye, a shy smile slowly creasing her features. "You … want to go for coffee with me?" she asked, her voice uncertain.

John responded with a toothy grin. "Well, you're going to have to give me that tenner at some point."

"You keep telling yourself that," Molly smiled.

"I am and I will – so…?"

Molly slid into the back of the taxi. "All right then."

"One o'clock at Costa?" John asked, running his hand across the top of the open car door.

"One o'clock it is then," she smiled, waving softly as John closed the door.

John tried to stop himself from grinning like an insane crazy man as he watched the taxi pull away and drive down the street. He hadn't originally intended on asking Molly out for coffee but it just happened - the words escaped his lips. He scolded himself for acting in such a manner. He wasn't a child so he really shouldn't be as giddy as a child in a toy shop. He was a professional.

* * *

><p>"You took your time," Sherlock said as he meticulously tuned his violin, occasionally plucking a note. "Had I known you would take this long, I would have gone myself."<p>

John smiled, tugging his coat off and hanging it on the back of the door before throwing himself into his usual chair.

Sherlock looked up, arching a brow. "How can you go down to the mortuary and come back with a date?"

"What makes you say that?" John asked. He reached down and picked up his laptop, eager to find out who had won X-Factor - £10 WAS on the line.

Sherlock continued to pluck the notes, the sounds the instrument made never failed to relax him. "You've got that stupid look on your face," he stated indifferently.

"I'm taking Molly out for coffee tomorrow."

Sherlock's brows furrowed together as he looked up suddenly. "Molly? Molly Hooper?"

"The very same," John answered, grinning as he took in Sherlock's expression. It was obvious that he could not comprehend the reasoning behind John asking Molly out.

"Are you really that desperate for female attention, John?"

The doctor laughed. "At least you won't forget this possible girlfriend's name."

Returning to his violin, Sherlock positioned the instrument under his chin, hand firmly grasping the neck, gently running his fingers across the strings. He then picked up the bow, gliding it effortlessly across the strings, slowly increasing the pitch to drone out John's mind-numbing jabbering.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>I'm obviously going down the road that Molly is a fully qualified pathologist, instead of just a lab tech - just in case anyone has any complaints.<p>

Just to mention also that this isn't slash and that all interactions between Sherlock and John are purely friendship based...i just cannot picture them as anything other than the best of friends.

Lastly, I hope the characters aren't too ooc or anything of the such...


	3. Part III

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part III

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was bored. He was truly, immensely bored. He did try to occupy his mind with trivial things. He had read through all of John's blog entries, twice, and written down every grammatical error that caused his mind to reel in sheer frustration. He had even done an especially kind thing by jotting down various ways that would benefit John more. In bold letters he had written 'Delete this tripe!' however, knowing John; he would not heed Sherlock's sound advice. No, the doctor would roll his eyes and deliberately not follow it. It was all very childish – John was very childish at times, Sherlock decided. Nevertheless, he wrote down some excellent suggestions, taking up exactly fourteen pages in John's little black book.<p>

That was fifty three minutes ago.

Sherlock was still bored and John was too busy pruning in the bathtub to take any notice of his torment. Anyone would have thought that John was meeting a member of the royal family, what with the way he was washing his hair, ironing his shirt and deciding whether or not he should smell like Calvin Klein. According to John, he wanted to make an effort for Molly, without making it seemingly obvious that he was making an effort. The logic was completely flawed and idiotic, which Sherlock stated, however, John ignored him. The whole notion was dull and pointless. Molly had seen John looking less than best on many occasions, so why, Sherlock mused, bother now?

Where was Lestrade with his case? Surely someone must have died during the night.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, John emerged from the bathroom, smiling and humming the theme tune to 'The A Team'. He brushed himself down, a subconscious thing, and made his way to the living room. He had finally decided on casual smart for the coffee-date, settling on a black striped shirt and dark jeans. He decided against Calvin Klein, however, opting for Hugo Boss instead.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson," John smiled, watching the woman grimace as she put the milk back into the fridge. _She must have seen the pickled toe_, John thought.

Mrs Hudson shook her head. Long gone were the days where she would open the fridge in 221B Baker Street and find a slab of cheese. Now, if she was lucky, she would only find small things. After having a stern word with Sherlock about the head in the fridge, which probably did no good whatsoever, the worst she had found was a bag of bloodied thumbs.

"Good morning, John – oh, don't you look dashing!" she beamed, turning on her heel to face John. "Who's the lucky girl?"

John laughed, gently running his hand through his hair. Mrs Hudson never failed to make him smile. There was something about the woman that was just so maternal and John now couldn't imagine living without her in his life. She was always there for advice and took a great enjoyment from his love life, never hesitating to inform him what her opinions of the girls he dated. She was very fond of Sarah, even a little bit sad when he informed her of the break-up and the reasoning behind it. Despite this, if she felt that someone wasn't right for him, she told him straight. Jeanette, in Mrs Hudson's opinion, was clingy, quick to anger and had this horrible jealous streak. Anyone who was jealous was his and Sherlock's friendship, wasn't worth the effort, she told him in earnest. He had begrudgingly agreed with her.

"Molly," he told her.

"Oh, she's a lovely girl, John," she replied warmly, eyes alight with mirth as she leaned closer, voice sinking to a whisper with her next comment. "And she's pretty too…"

John grinned ear-to-ear, looking like the cat that got the cream, and said, "I know."

"Oh please," Sherlock snorted, slouching further down the chair. Why were Sundays so dreadfully boring? He was fully aware that many classed this as the 'Lord's day of rest', however, this was ridiculous. Suddenly he heard a noise that he was familiar with. Jumping from the chair, Sherlock rushed over to the window, the corner of his lips curling as he peered through the net curtains. _It's about time_, he sneered to himself.

John watched, wondering what had caught Sherlock's attention. The dark-haired detective moved away from the window and threw himself back into the same position he was in previous – slouching down the chair.

John blinked, looking over towards Mrs Hudson, who merely shrugged her shoulders and turned away. It was only after hearing the door and heavy footsteps that he knew what was happening.

"What have you got for me then, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked indifferent.

The Detective Inspector huffed as he entered the room, looking around and silently greeting John and Mrs Hudson. "Young female, early twenties, found dead on the rail lines early this morning. It was originally thought as suicide; however, considering the girl's background, we're now treating it as suspicious."

He handed Sherlock a folder, which contained photographs of the body, evidence and crime scene.

Sherlock sat up straight as he removed the photographs, swiftly looking through each one, before thrusting them in Lestrade's chest. "It was an accidental death, clearly obvious, and not worth my time."

"Well, how can you tell?" Lestrade asked, arching a brow.

Sherlock stud up suddenly, snatching the photographs back. "Does the entire police force look with their eyes closed whenever there is a crime in progress?" He held up a photograph. "It's obvious. Look at the girl's right boot. Scuff marks and a slight tear at the toe indicates that she got her foot caught between the tracks when she was crossing, obviously running late and eager to get to wherever it was she was going, possibly a boyfriend's. The boots are brand new and expensive; she didn't want to ruin them. The way the stones are upturned and the disturbed dirt show that she struggled trying to free her foot – she panicked. Her nails are chipped from where she scratched the tracks. Several broken down to the skin – see must have heard the train at this point. She had to resort to unzipping the boot and trying to free her foot that way, however, she lost her footing and fell backwards, freeing herself in the process, which would explain the three broken toes or dislocated ankle, difficult to tell which without actually removing the boot. She fell backwards; head impacting with the other rail tracks, obvious from the blood on the lines, and this is what caused her death. As I said, this was accidental. Now, if you don't mind, I am extremely busy," he finished, turning his attention away from Lestrade.

"Fine – ok then," the inspector groaned, turning to leave.

"Believe it or not, Greg, he looks forward to your visits," John said, smirking as he stole a quick glance in Sherlock's direction. "His little ears perk up whenever he hears your car coming up the street and he's at that window quicker than you can say 'Anderson, you idiot'."

Lestrade laughed, showing a row of white teeth as he looked forward to Sherlock's reaction.

"Oh shut up, John! Go on your … date."

"Things not work out between you and Jeanette then?" Lestrade asked, putting his hands in his pocket, feeling the cigarette box there. After everything that happened between his soon-to-be ex-wife, he had started smoking again – the patches just couldn't cut it anymore.

John shook his head. "No, we broke up shortly after Christmas."

"He's going out with Molly now – girlfriend number five is it, John?" Sherlock shot back, delicately cleaning his violin bow.

"One date doesn't constitute her being my girlfriend (yet), Sherlock."

"Molly?" Lestrade asked, brow pulling together and his lips pressed in a straight line.

"The very same Molly you were ogling at the party, Lestrade – the very same," Sherlock smiled shrewdly.

"I wasn't – I'm going to go now," he said, eager to have that cigarette now. "See you later, John, Mrs Hudson…"

John sighed, shaking his head as he bade the other goodbye, closing the door behind him. Sometimes he really did not understand what was going through that brain of Sherlock's.

"Well, I'm going to go and meet Molly – don't wait up."

Sherlock turned and stopped cleaning the bow. "We need milk too."

John stared, mouth open ajar. "How can we need more? I only bought it last night."

"Yes, and now it is nearly empty, thus the need more."

The blond man looked around, hands subconsciously moving to express his bewilderment. "You don't even have milk in your coffee!"

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>Ok, I decided I'd try and do a little of Sherlock - just for practice. I know his deduction isn't up to Sherlock standards, but it is good enough for fanfiction ones though.<p>

Also, had to put the whole Lastrade ogling Molly at the party because it was so obviously OBVIOUS that he was checking her out. I swear his mouth was open for at least 30 seconds lol. It really doesn't help an author who can easily see Molly with most of the lead male cast XD

Thanks for the reviews, guys. I'm glad I'm working to your expectations :)


	4. Part IV

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part IV

* * *

><p>Molly blew gently into the palms of her hands and slowly rubbed them together, trying with all her might to warm herself up. It was almost as if they had gone back in seasons because this cold that currently plagued London was the kind of weather they had in December time, not early February. While it was true that the month of February was part of the winter season, it didn't stop her from complaining about it. It was just human nature to complain about the weather. In fact, it wouldn't surprise her if London was covered in snow by the end of the month.<p>

A smile crossed her features at the thought of snow. She absolutely adored London in the snow – anywhere in snow, really. The snow reminded her of her father. She remembered when she was younger and it had snowed overnight, her father had come into her room and told her to look outside. She was so excited by the white covering that she jumped out of her warm bed and ran outside, still clad in her pyjamas. She had been laughing the entire time, running around the garden as her father shouted for her to get dressed in proper clothing and that he would take her sledging. He'd even let her skip school that day, claiming she had a strong bout of flu. They spent the whole day sledging: her, her father and her older brother-

Molly shook her head viciously, frowning, willing the last part of the cherished memory away.

"Molly!"

Molly turned her head, smiling as the perfect distraction arrived. "John."

The man grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. "I'm sorry I'm late – I had a row."

Molly tilted her head to the right, regarding John with sympathy. "With Sherlock?" she asked gently.

"No, it was a cash machine this time," he told her honestly. He felt that it was only right that she be well informed of his small tendency of arguing with inanimate objects.

Molly laughed and John found himself smiling back at her, noticing the way her face lit up and how her eyes twinkled with glee. "It tried to rob me blind and in broad daylight, Molly. Unfortunately, when you argue with those sorts of thing, you forget how easy it is to draw in a crowd. I'm just glad I managed to gain a shred of self-control or I'd be looking at my second ASBO."

"You've got an ASBO?"

John sighed, nodding as he said the one word that would explain everything. "Sherlock."

"Ah, say no more," Molly smiled. "Did you manage to get everything sorted then?"

"I did, yes," he told her, digging into his jeans pocket and handing over a crisp ten pound note. "I believe this belongs to you."

The pathologist took the money, sticking her tongue out in return before laughing once again. "Looks like coffee is on me then."

"Technically, it's on me," John replied, opening the door for her and using his hand to motion her inside. "Ladies first…"

"Spoken like a true gentleman."

They walked into the quaint coffee shop, savouring the warmth that hit them the moment they stepped under the heater. It was bliss. There weren't too many people in the shop, which made the atmosphere much more cosy and comfortable. John had told Molly to sit down at a table while he got their drinks. He even insisted on paying, refusing to take the money that Molly tried to slip into his hand, claiming that it was his idea to go for coffee, thus his obligation to pay. Molly found it difficult to refuse; however, it may have been due to the feigned hurt look that John shot in her direction that convinced her.

"One cinnamon latte for you," John said, carefully sliding the drink in front of her. "And, one cappuccino for me. Are you sure you don't want a muffin or anything to eat?"

Molly stirred the drink. "Thank you for this, and I'm okay. Knowing my luck, if I indulged in a chocolate muffin, Sherlock would find some way of commenting on the sudden weight gain," she laughed.

"I won't tell, if you won't tell," John grinned.

Molly laughed once again. She was doing a lot of that today. Always a good sign, she figured.

The afternoon passed pleasantly enough for both John and Molly, conversation flowing with ease. Molly listened with interest as John told her stories of his youth, especially his exuberant university years. It amazed her that Mike Stamford would do half of the things that John had told her – they really were quite the pair, she laughed to herself. She had to admit that her own university experiences were far from thrilling and that she was quite the quiet bookwork. When John refused to believe that, Molly smiled slyly, a mischievous glint in her eye.

Now, however, the conversation took a turn and Molly was now in the process of defending herself, trying to hide behind her empty glass as John laughed at her expense.

"It wasn't funny, John," she exclaimed exultantly, though the smile on her face said otherwise. "I had an elderly patient forcing me to lie down while demanding that the doctors take my blood pressure and glucose levels checked. It was the worst first work experience day ever – can't believe I had a dizzy spell. It wasn't like it was a huge deal … all he was doing was drawing blood, missing the vein albeit."

"I'm sorry, but that is one of the most hilarious things I've heard for a while," John sniggered, biting his finger to try and stop the obvious noise he made.

Molly arched a brow. "So you've never had any experiences like that when you were training in the hospital?"

"Nope."

"Something tells me that you aren't quite telling the truth, Doctor John Watson," she beamed, leaning forward on both her elbows.

"How badly do you want to know?" John asked, suggestively raising a brow, which caused Molly to giggle in such a wonderful way that he decided to swallow his pride and tell her the embarrassing truth. "It happened ONCE."

"Do tell…"

"I'd say it was during my twelfth observational operation. I'd been in cardiothoracic, watching hearts being sliced open, blood everywhere … that didn't faze me one bit. What did finally caught me, which I never for one moment expected, was a minor operation. Cyst removal."

Molly stared, mouth open ajar. "You fainted because of a cyst removal op?"

"Hang on, hang on," John breathed, waving his arms lightly for emphasis. "The cyst was on the tip of a man's penis. The anaesthetic injections and slicing was fine, however, the moment the doctor began sutchering the tip of his foreskin, I was out like a light. Flat out on the floor – just like that," he said, clicking his fingers. "I had managed to conveniently erase that from my memory up until now."

John looked at Molly, seeing her shoulder shaking with the laughter she was trying to supress, her lips pursed tightly as light giggles accidently escaped her mouth.

"This is karma, isn't it?" he asked, bemused.

The woman laughed once more and took a deep breath, face breaking into a serene smile. "Perhaps we should leave? It seems like the staff are starting to become slightly wary of us. Plus, we wouldn't want to risk you getting that second ASBO now, would we?"

"Of course not," he sniggered, collecting his coat from the back of his chair and putting it on. He watched Molly fiddle with her scarf and gloves before even attempting to put on her coat. He wasn't sure why, but he found himself walking to her side and lifting her coat for her, holding it open.

"Oh, thank you," she said softly, extending her arms through the holes of the coat before pulling it around herself.

They made their way to the exit, biding the staff a good day as they went by. John, once again, held the door open for Molly, who, once again, smiled and thanked him.

"I don't know about you, but I really enjoyed myself today," Molly said softly, shyly looking at John, not really knowing what to expect at this point. Something positive, she hoped.

John nodded. "So did I. Do you … fancy doing it again?"

"I'd love to, however, I'll probably be working late again all next week (again)."

"I could bring coffee to you then. I'm sure, should he tag along, that if we give Sherlock a couple of tissue samples and a microscope, he'll sit quietly in a corner and possibly behave himself," he chuckled.

"I'd like that," Molly smiled.

"So it's a date then?" John grinned.

Her cheeks flushed a little as she nodded. "It's a date."

Molly shivered as she felt John sweep her hair to the side and gently pressed his lips to her left cheek. "See you tomorrow then," he whispered into her ear before pulling away and smiling warmly.

Molly blushed slightly, nodding her head and waving gently as she said goodbye and turned to leave. She walked halfway down the street and decided to turn around, comforted at the sight of John remaining where he was previously, watching her. She waved once more, smiling.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>I hadn't intended on writing this so quickly but I've been having the same problems as a couple of others here and my story hasn't been showing up. Just wondering whether uploading would help solve the problem.<p>

Anyway, I hope you liked the date and that it wasn't too strained - I was aiming for being natural but romance seriously isn't my area lol.


	5. Part V

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part V

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat in complete silence, eyes closed, as he assimilated all the information about the recent case. An eighteen-year-old boy had been found lying face down in a river, strong smell of alcohol about him, with no signs of struggle or physical injury. To anyone the sign of death was obvious – drowning. Sherlock, however, wasn't everyone. It was too convenient of a death. Something didn't sit well with him. Sherlock Holmes's instinct had never failed him yet, and he knew it was not about to start now.<p>

"You don't think it was an accident then?" John asked, looking over the notes he had taken from the scene. He had done a quick external examination and he could see the obvious indications of drowning, accompanied by tell tail signs of alcohol consumption.

"No, John, I don't," he replied, crossing his arms. "Do you not find it rather unusual that he was with a large group of friends and none of them were concerned about him leaving alone, obviously intoxicated?"

"Kids that age think they're invincible. I very much doubt he would have second guessed anything in that sense."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, they weren't worried because he left with someone. They never saw who, but he told them. Now, it must have been someone he knew and trusted – maybe a family member? What we need to do is find the person he left with."

John stared, amazed once again by how Sherlock managed to come to such incredible conclusions. "How?"

Sherlock cracked open an eye, smirking. "Homeless network, John. I've told you many times that they are much more reliable and efficient that anything the police conjure up."

"I wonder what the motive could have been though," John thought aloud, exhaling a heavy sigh as he turned to Sherlock, who held something between his fingers.

"I believe this has something to do with it," he informed John.

"A bracelet?"

Sherlock held the bracelet higher. The black threads that securely held the beads in place were torn and frayed. Force had been used to tear this from the boy's wrist. What had drawn Sherlock's immediate attention were the absent beads. It was clearly obvious to him that, had the boy been mugged and murdered by a random passer-by, the whole bracelet would be missing, as would his phone, wallet and gold watch. However, nothing but the bracelet had been removed, which had been discarded several yards from the body. The murder must have targeted the boy for this sole reason.

Why though? What was so important about this cheap bit of jewellery?

"St Bartholomew's Hospital," Sherlock shouted out to the taxi driver, who grunted in response. "I need to have a word with your girlfriend about something, John."

It had been about two weeks since John had first taken Molly out for that coffee. It been quite the joyous experience and he hadn't been expecting to see Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway when he opened the front door. Apparently, the woman had been keeping her ear open for the sounds of his return, eager to hear all the details about his date. She had all but forced him to sit at the table while she made tea and coffee, quickly handing a cup to Sherlock, who had snorted when she originally made only two cups for John and herself, and waited for John to start spilling the beans. He told her everything – she demanded nothing less than the whole truth, after all. He explained that Molly was different to what he originally thought, she wasn't afraid of speaking her mind (to him at least), and how he was surprised by all the things they had in common. Above all, he enjoyed how naturally easy it was to be with her and that he was planning on seeing her again the next day. Mrs Hudson had beamed, telling him how happy she was to hear.

"That doesn't sound like Molly at all," Sherlock had scoffed, placing the now empty coffee cup on the table in front of him.

John retorted immediately. "The Molly you know is obviously nothing like the girl I just had coffee with – shame really." He was perfectly aware of Sherlock's tendency to over analysis everything Molly did, to the point where she would stumble and mince her words. However, John had decided that considering they were now sort of involved, it was his duty to defend her. Hopefully, soon enough, she would even show Sherlock the same confidence she had shown him. It would do her good, he thought.

Sherlock didn't snipe back with an indelicate comment, which John had been expecting. No, the detective grunted and turned his back on John, opening the laptop and began swiftly typing something. Both he and Mrs Hudson shared the same expression at the behaviour they witness – let it be.

John and Molly had met up every other day. True to her word, the pathologist had been extremely busy with work and whenever John brought her coffee, she was grateful and tried to dedicate as much free time as she could to him. He insisted that it didn't matter and he understood perfectly well the pressures of work.

She was still herself with Sherlock, shy and slightly timid. John hadn't expected instant miracles in this department, thus he expected as such. What he hadn't expected was for Molly to refuse Sherlock access to one of the cadavers, even after he blatantly complimented her choice of perfume. John could see it happening, if he thought back. The way Molly had been rushing around all day, doubled with the fact that she had to work to the coroner's time limit, and every minute that passed was adding stress to her shoulders. She told Sherlock that all the compliments in the world weren't going to change her mind, and that she was being paid to do a job at the end of the day. The look of disbelief that crossed Sherlock's face when she ran out was enough to render John in a fit of laughter. A minute later Molly rushed back in, muttering a quick apology to Sherlock for shouting in a rather undignified manner, and that the apology wasn't a means of her changing her mind about what she said, and delivering a quick kiss to John, saying that she'd see him after work. John laughed again. The apology, if anything, worsened Sherlock's expression as he stormed out the room, muttering "Shut up" and left the hospital. For John, this would be one of the other memories he would conjure up whenever Sherlock drove him insane.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>I'm really enjoying writing this, however, I've got a feeling that updates won't be as frequent now that my holiday from work is over. Ah well.<p>

This is my attempt at trying to give Molly a bit of a backbone toward Sherlock, because with the way he treated her throughout the majority of the series, he deserves it.


	6. Part VI

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part VI

* * *

><p>Molly stared at papers scattered listlessly across the desk, each page filled with information that she had extracted from her latest post-mortem. The penmanship was sloppy and careless, with obvious ink smudges from where the pen was gripped too firmly against the paper and the hand had shaken. It was unlike her usual handwriting, where all the letters curled elegantly into one another in a natural flow, breaking only to start a new word. She exhaled, closing her excruciatingly tired eyes as she lowered her head into the palm of her hands, not caring about the blotches of blue ink that may smudge into her hairline. There was always times where she found her work difficult, a childish reluctance throbbing in the back of her mind, screaming at her to look hard at what she had become. Luckily for Molly, these thoughts were few in comparison to the sense of achievement and gratification she felt whenever she made a diagnosis, knowing that there was a chance that the findings she uncovered from a recently deceased one could, in fact, help towards the living. However…<p>

She sighed again. The notes weren't going to type themselves up. She would also have the whole of the afternoon to perform this task, knowing that no other staff member would be disturbing her today. She was half tempted to send John a text but decided against this, a nagging feeling telling her that he was probably too busy to be disturbed. Maybe she could…? _Stop stalling, Molly_, she chastised herself.

"Molly, just the person I was hoping to find," came a smooth voice from seemingly out of nowhere. Molly knew who it was instantly. He had always had this ability to just be there, soundless movement giving away nothing of his entrance. It was just like – _poof_ – and he was there.

Not looking up, Molly swiftly collected her notes into a neat pile and hiding them away in a plain brown file. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?" she asked, more out of habit than anything. Finally looking up, she saw him standing with his hands in his pockets, the blue scarf, which was an extension of his being, looking slightly more fray around the edges, and his icy eyes burning deep into her. He must obviously need something, she decided. Just as she was about to ask, she noticed something, or someone, standing just behind him. Her eyes shone and a smile crossed her features as she took a step forward. "John."

She walked past Sherlock, never seeing the incredulous flicker within his eyes, and wrapped her arms around John, burying her head into his shoulder, exhaling the scent that was John. He made her safe. John didn't falter one second before curling his arms tightly around her, bringing her closer to his body, worry clearly evident in his eyes. "Molly, what's wrong?" he asked, gently rubbing the small of her back.

She shook her head. "Just needed a hug," she said, words muffled against him. "It's silly really."

"Not at all," he told her honestly, resting his head on top of her own and inhaling the sweet fragrant of her shampoo – it was one of his favourites. He gently used his hand to lift her head to face him, smiling before leaning down to grace her lips with his own.

A convenient cough broke the couple from their reverie. They pulled away from each other, looking sheepish as they saw Sherlock leaning lazily against the desk, arms crossed.

"Oh – I'm sorry. What was it you needed, Sherlock?" Molly asked, trying to ignore the way her cheeks inflamed under his gaze.

"I need to know if you have a person named Mathew Connelly on your list," he told her bluntly.

She quickly rushed to the desk and picked up the clipboard that she was rarely seen without. It had a list of names, those who she was required to work on; however, the name Sherlock asked for was not on hers.

"He's not on my list, but, if you like, I can ask around for you."

Sherlock nodded, removing his coat before taking a seat at the desk, reaching for the microscope and any other piece of equipment he may need. He had several fibres, all taken from the body of the victim, that he needed to examine. Unfortunately, when he had arrived at the crime scene, most of the actual worthwhile evidence had been desecrated due to foolish negligence. How could the police force work the way they did was beyond him. He sometimes wondered how they managed to dress themselves, let along conduct a thorough investigation.

He snuck a brief glance to his left, seeing Molly and John happily talking about something pointless. Molly had not even left to do the task she promised. He turned his attention back to the sample – tobacco, one of the cheaper brands too. Connelly did not smoke. He would need to further investigate this.

Fifteen minutes passed and Molly had not moved from John's side. Usually, within five minutes of Sherlock being in her presence, Molly would bring him a cup a coffee, made to perfection after all the failed attempts she foiled in the past. He certainly would not lower himself to merely ask either.

He stole one last glance before slowly stretching his left arm across the desk, watching intently as the white mug near him edged closer to the desk's end. Almost immediately after, he jumped up, smirking as he heard the shattering of glass.

"How clumsy of me," he exclaimed falsely, bending down to retrieve the pieces, knowing that, any second now, Molly would be dropping to his side to help with the mess. Out of the corner of his peripheral vision, he saw her rush from John to his aid. The corner of his lips curled.

"Let me help," she told him, bending down and gently collecting several shards of jagged porcelain.

"Be careful," Sherlock told her. Gently, he took her hand in his own, delicately running a finger across her wrist, transferring the glass from her hand to his. "We wouldn't want you getting hurt now, would we, Molly?"

Molly shook her head. "How did it fall?"

"I must have caught it with my sleeve. Pity, I was looking forward to a cup of coffee," he answered, huskily.

"Would you like me to get you one?" she asked, smiling.

Sherlock moved closer toward her, smiling. "I'd gratefully appreciate that, Molly. Oh, you also seem to be wearing that delectable perfume again." He crept forward, inhaling. "Delectable indeed."

Molly stammered as she stood up and swiftly exited the room. Only when he was fully satisfied that the door was fully closed and Molly was out of ear range, John stormed forward.

"What the hell was that, Sherlock!" he demanded, brows furrowing, lips curled downwards.

Disposing of the broken cup, Sherlock turned to face John. "I have no idea what you are talking about," he said nonchalantly.

John grit his teeth. "You've no idea?" he mocked. "You've no idea why you were flirting with my girlfriend?"

"It's very rare that Molly falters on a job," he told John straightforwardly. "She's very professional and is fully able to manage all her emotions whilst performing, to avoid any personal transformations that could occur."

John stared. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Sherlock ignored this, continuing his monologue. "However, when she does falter, it affects her emotionally and physically, which I'm certain that you're aware of by now. She's of no use to anyone, including herself, when she is in such a state."

John shot a glare at Sherlock. How dare he?

The detective sat at his chair, swiftly sliding the brown folder of notes across the table, before turning his attention back to the sample he was examining.

John hesitated before reaching for the folder, opening it was a soft bang against the table. His anger and irritation soon faded as he read over the notes, fully understanding what the cause behind Molly's behaviour was when he first entered the lab. "A child?" he breathed, eyes wide.

Sherlock looked closer into the microscope. "It was clearly obvious, John. I noticed the moment I opened the door."

"So the…"

"Distraction," he stated. "She's needs to be distracted so she can fully digest what's occurring. I suggest you do your role as boyfriend and distract her furthermore. A fine restaurant around London should suffice."

John was gobsmacked, not fully sure what had happened to be perfectly honest.

"Mention my name and I'm sure you'll get an instant reservation – a lot of people owe me a lot of favours," he smirked.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>Firstly, thanks for the reviews, guys :)<p>

I loved writing this chapter so much, however, I'm not too keen on the ending. Hmm. I was also not going to have this so soon but I felt compiled to write it. I really wanted to give Molly a little more depth regarding her job and sooner rather than later was more appropriate.

Also, I'm loving writing John/Molly - gonna be hard to find a way to have the Sherlock/Molly that this story needs XD


	7. Part VII

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part VII

* * *

><p>John sighed loudly as he watched the screen in front of him telling him in a rather obnoxious way that he could not purchase the alcoholic beverages he wanted without having a member of staff scrutinising him and deciding whether or not they should allow him to complete the purchase. If they ID'd him, he was leaving. Simple as…<p>

He looked around at all the other people who seemed to rush their purchases through the self-service checkouts with ease. So why was it that every time John used the self-serve in the mere hopes of leaving the store quicker, something went completely wrong? The worst part was that he could see at least five staff members nearby, all talking to one another and completely ignoring his misery. It must be so blissful being paid to stand around and do nothing but chops the day away.

"Excuse me, Miss – could you?" he asked the first staff member he saw, using his hand to indicate his problem with the wretched machine.

The young woman, who looked bored out of her skull, nodded at John as she looked at the screen and began to fix the problem. "There you go, hun," she replied sluggish, chewing a piece of gum loudly, before walking away to join the rest of the herd.

"Thanks," he muttered. He opened his wallet and inserted a crisp twenty into the machine, not daring to use his debit card again after the last humiliating visit, as he removed the bags, waiting for his change to be dispensed. Upon hearing the dropping of money, he collected the few coins and left, eager to see the back of this store.

Walking down the street, John found his mind drifting back to the events at Bart's, earlier that day. Sherlock's behaviour had unnerved him, that much was certain. Upon witnessing his friend gently caressing Molly's hands as he removed the broken pieces, and hearing the sultry voice he used to deliver empty compliments, John felt his blood begin to boil. He wasn't jealous. It wasn't jealousy that was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge, causing him to clench his fists and wanting to do nothing more than tightening the scarf around Sherlock's neck. No, this was not jealousy. Sherlock would never be a threat, not in that aspect at least. No, what John felt was more than mere jealousy. He felt betrayed – hurt. Not by Molly, but by Sherlock. John failed to see the logic. He couldn't even put it down to a childish resentment, on Sherlock's behalf, because, unlike the others, the detective had gradually approved of his relationship with Molly. John's past relationships, according to Sherlock, had been nothing but an annoyance. They had all started off in the same manner: all smiles and warm fuzzy feelings. However, usually at the two week mark, their behaviour and options began to change. What was once sheer admiration and astonishment at hearing all the intricate details of a case soon became boredom and bitterness towards John's loyalty. Obviously, once that point arrived, the relationship was inevitably doomed. John, himself, even got to the point where, in the later relationships at least, would only make so much of an effort to rekindle the romance. What he truly wanted was a girlfriend who could accept his friendship with Sherlock Holmes, who could see the same thing John saw when he looked at the detective, someone who wasn't overly intimidated by his massive intellect and impassive, and most of the times, peculiar ways. So, when Sherlock spoke the following words about Molly, John was overjoyed:

"I suppose it would be somewhat of a pleasant change for you to date someone who can actually comprehend the severity of our work and not just sit there with a whimsical expression of their face, twiddling their thumbs, while you reiterate past cases for their amusement. If you manage to miraculously reach the two month mark, I'll buy you a little anniversary gift to celebrate the occasion…"

That had been the closest thing to a compliment that John ever received, relationship wise at least. Sherlock approved – had approved. This is why John found himself unmentionably angry at Sherlock at the lab. Was this the detective's way of emphasising that Molly was still his human plaything, despite whom she was romantically involved with? The thought was childish and John was slightly ashamed that the notion had passed through his head. He just wanted an explanation. A real one.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, didn't disappoint either. He explained in his overly cryptic way that Molly was currently under a great deal of stress and the complimenting was somewhat of a 'pick-me-up'. He was being kind. John appreciated this. He appreciated that Sherlock could notice that Molly was upset the moment he clapped eyes on her and the reasoning behind it. He also appreciated that he knew instantly the perfect way to help Molly. However, just because John appreciated it, didn't mean he had to like it. No, John Watson, being the overly dotting boyfriend he was to Molly Hooper, should have been the one to offer initial comfort and reassurance, not Sherlock Holmes.

John viciously shook his head. He needed to stop over analysing what happened. No real harm had been done, if he truly thought back. Molly had returned fifteen minutes later, two cups of coffee in her hands, and explained to Sherlock that the person he sought was not registered to Bart's Hospital and that, if he liked, she would call in a few favours and find out where his body was currently situated. It was as if what happened had not transpired as she placed Sherlock's drink next to him, and handed the other to John, informing him that despite the fact that he never asked for it, he looked as if he needed it. John inwardly gloated that, unlike Sherlock, he didn't need to ask for his coffee.

"Here at last," John smiled, looking at the white door in front of him. Gently, he lifted his hand and knocked, laughing silently as he saw a large ginger and white cat jump into the window, staring intensely at him.

A moment later the door opened to reveal Molly, standing there with a warm smile on her face.

"You're late," she said, eyes laughing as she saw the bag in his hands. "Another row?"

John shook his head, taking in her appearance. She looked less stressed and agitated than earlier, more comfortable within herself. Her hair was worn loose, waving at the tips, her make-up was minimal, and her clothes, a simple white polo jumper and blue jeans, complimented her figure. She took his breath away. He always preferred her natural look, because, unlike some girl's he had dated in the past, she carried it to perfection. Standing here, seemingly looking as if she had made little effort in appearance, John thought she was beautiful.

Holding up the bag, John laughed. "No, we overcame our differences eventually."

Molly smiled. "Come in, you're letting the heat out."

John nodded and grinned, entering the house, all earlier events now officially forgotten.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>I felt that John's view on what happened at Bart's was needed to help the story progress because he did, after all, witness his best friend flirting with his girlfriend, despite Sherlock's reasoning behind it. It also wanted to divulge into the relationship between John and Sherlock, and how John does appreciate and cherish his opinion on certain things. I have to admit that writing this was odd because it is EXACILY similar to how my best friend and I are. We are ridiculously close, to the point where people assume a little more. We humour them lol. Doesn't help that she calls me her wife to everyone and when they see the ring on her finger (her real husband) they assume it's true. So, I can wholeheartedly understand John's annoyance at people assuming things between him and Sherlock. It just don't see it – I don't see the obsession people have. The fans can get rather vicious if you even try to dispel the myth that they aren't an item lol.<p>

Anyway. I have to say that this story has taken a turn and the ending I have in mind now, is NOTHING like my original one. These characters are changing my story – how dare they. Oh, and don't worry, Molly will eventually have to go to Baker Street one day – she can't avoid that. I'm looking forward to it.

One last thing. I love LOVE John. My god, the more I write him, the more I realise he's the perfect boyfriend lol.

Oh – before I forget: the ending to the last chap was about a child autopsy. I can easily picture her being very professional but when it comes to certain aspects of her job, such as that, it knocks her for six. So no, Molly isn't preggers lol. It never occurred to me actually … who could have been the last person she was sexually involved with? I have this odd image of Molly bearing Moriarty's child and it being the real enemy of Sherlock in later life – it would be the clash of the century lol.


	8. Part VIII

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part VIII

* * *

><p>Photographs, newspaper cut-outs and A4 print-outs now covered the walls of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock stared intently as he digested the information, a multitude of ideas, probabilities and possible outcomes coursing through his brain at such a speed that any regular person would throw themselves down onto the ground and cry out in pain. Sherlock, however, thrived on this feeling. He was at the height of his game when his brain was on over speed. He existed solely for the challenge, fearing that should this ever wane, his mind and whole being would stagnate and fade into a monotonous nothingness. How boring that would be.<p>

Sherlock drew a line between two photographs, both victims, writing the word 'connection' above. To the far left were another set of photographs, one being an iconic figure that every person in the whole of Britain recognised, and another being that of an official looking gentleman. He dragged a line to link the pictures, writing 'theft' above, also jotting the date August 1997 above the female picture. In the centre of the diagram was the bracelet he acquired from the crime scene, linked to all the pictures.

It had not taken him long to decipher the mystery behind the missing pieces in the bracelet. Obviously, judging from the exterior of this particular piece of jewellery, and by examining the circumference of the absent gems, it was logical to assume that the missing pieces were pearls. Another logical assumption was that the stolen pearls were in fact black, which remained rare and high valued, even to this day. Had the pearls been white and relatively mundane, the murderer would have just stolen the bracelet, leaving the victim comatose, but alive. No, caution had been used in this crime and the murderer was careful – remaining unseen to Mathew Connolly's friends, leading him to a secluded area, wearing gloves to avoid leaving any prints. However, he wasn't careful enough to escape the ever watchful eye of Sherlock Holmes.

Once Sherlock knew of the missing pearls, it was time to answer the question of where they originated from. Only one case sprung to mind that would connect that crime to the pearls. In August 1997, a theft had occurred. Whilst the world was mourning the death of an icon, one man, a formerly well trusted man-servant, had been feeling light-fingered and made off with a small fortune of jewellery. He was caught within days and all the jewellery had been recovered, all accept one necklace - a white gold necklace with a string of ten, perfectly round, black pearls. The bracelet that was currently hanging on the wall was missing ten pearls. Was this nothing but a mere coincidence? Sherlock did not believe so either.

The only thing that was niggling Sherlock now was the connection. Obviously, the original thief must have hidden the necklace because it was screamingly evident that he would not get away with such a crime, certainly not one of that magnitude at least. He must have had an accomplice who had woven the pearls into a cheap-looking bracelet because a thorough investigation had been opened in hopes of recovering the lost necklace. However, it was common knowledge that the police force back then was even worse than the current bunch of idiots that patrolled the streets today. It was no wonder the necklace had never been recovered, Sherlock sneered to himself.

"How is the murderer targeting his victims though?" he asked aloud, knowing that there was no one to answer him. His trusted skull had been his companion for the night because John had not yet made it back from Molly's.

To be honest, this should not have surprised him because John regularly stayed with his girlfriend's whenever they did not have a case or if he just needed to leave Baker Street for some unknown reason. John's relationships, to Sherlock, were predictable. They all followed the same basis. Week one: getting to know one another and staying over, on a strictly friendly basis. Week two: sex. Week three: discovering that dating John Watson wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Week four: arguments, jealous (on her side) and the inevitable break-up. The only girlfriend who didn't last a full month was Jean – or whatever her name was. It mattered very little to Sherlock anyway. No, John's relationships were all alike. Which was why, after two weeks, three days and twenty one hours, Sherlock found himself questioning why John was treating this relationship with Molly any different to his previous ones. John was treating his near three week relationship as if they were in the first week. It was rather curious and he would ask John about that when he saw him later.

As for Molly.

Little mousy Molly.

Little mousy Molly who had always dropped whatever she was doing to assist him in whatever it was he needed.

Little mousy Molly who he could wind easily around his little finger.

Little mousy Molly who had such bad taste in men that he needed to point out their obvious faults.

Little mousy Molly who had made such an effort at the Christmas party, just for him.

Little mousy Molly who he had inadvertently hurt showing off.

Little mousy Molly, one of the rare few to ever get a sincere apology from his lips.

Little mousy Molly who now easily resisted his ways.

Little mousy Molly who was currently dating his closest friend…

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>Wrote this at the same time as the last chapter but felt that it wouldn't flow right so I decided to leave it a day before posting as a separate chap. In my spare time I made the stupid mistake of reading some SherlockMolly fics here (not read any before now) and my GOD - they're so good! My writing, ideas and character development fails in comparison. Hence why I am a little worried about this chapter to be honest lol.

Also, thanks for the reviews, guys. Always appreciated :)


	9. Part IX

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part IX

* * *

><p>The early morning sun streamed through the window, the bright beams hitting the array of crystals that hung from the curtain rail and creating a multi-coloured pattern that reflected onto the ground. Beads of condensation formed in the corners of the glass, the heat from the radiator underneath causing the moisture to trail down the window and gather on the sill. On either side of the window sill sat a matching set of snow globes, both with small fairies inside. In the centre sat a larger globe, filled with golden glitter and small silver beads, with a magnificently detailed elf perched on top.<p>

John tore his attention from the window and looked around the room. Despite being small, the room was comfy and easily welcomed anyone into the house the moment they stepped inside. Photographs adorned the fireplace, some in frames and others simply slotted behind. John pushed himself from the sofa and walked towards the fireplace, gently picking up a small book that was nestled behind one of the frames.

"The Little Book of Calm?" he read the title, curiosity griping him as he skimmed through several pages and read a random passage. "Whenever you're in a tight spot, try to imagine yourself marooned on a beautiful desert island." John stared at the large print, his brain fully digesting what he read. "I wonder whether that would help whenever I have to put up with one of Sherlock's 'moods'?" he sniggered to himself.

"Oh, you're up?" came a soft voice from behind him.

John placed the small book back mantelpiece, careful in his placement of it, not wanting to accidently knock over the expensive-looking frame that now hid the book from sight. He turned around and saw Molly standing at the foot of the stairs, smiling, hair pulled up into a messy ponytail with several pieces falling around her face. He arched a brow, smile broadening as he gestured towards her. "Glasses?"

Molly blinked before realising what John had spoken of. Her cheeks reddened as she quickly removed the rectangular glasses and slid them into her pocket. "Oh, t-they're for the computer – work stuff…"

John laughed loudly at her. She was acting like she had been caught with her hand in the biscuit jar, not being found out she wore glasses to type up reports. Currently, he thought she was damn right adorable.

Molly shook her head, quickly changing the conversation. "Did you sleep well?" she asked, noticing that John had pulled the sofa bed back together and folded the sheets.

"Yes, that bed is ridiculously comfy, however, I did have company slipping under the covers with me during the night," he grinned, wiggling his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

"Something for you to update your blog with then?" she chuckled. "Hmm, how about: 'Stayed at my girlfriends for the first time last night. The evening was great and I discovered that Molly is somewhat of a culinary chief when it comes to Italian food. After much alcohol and far too much rubbish telly, we decided to hit the hay. Molly went one way and I slept on the sofa bed. I had quite the surprise when I felt Toby sneaking into bed with me, curling into the covers and falling asleep. It bothered me very little as I found myself wrapping my arms around him and falling into a blissful slumber. Best night ever. Photographic evidence can be provided ;)'"

The doctor's face cracked at that very moment, all the emotions he was trying to subdue now spilling out of him with a loud, hearty laugh. "Now that would be adding fire to the flames."

"We wouldn't want that to happen now, would we?" she retorted, the mischievous glint in her eyes mirroring the impish grin on her face.

John snorted, retrieving his watch from the coffee table. He had learnt his lesson to never sleep with a watch on again because he had his horrible little habit of sleeping with his wrist underneath his cheek. Obviously, one day he was late and rushed into the Surgery with a multitude of patterns decorating his face. The patients found it most amusing. John, however, did not. Never again.

Fastening the strap around his wrist, he caught sight of a small photo frame. Inquisitively, he carefully retrieved the picture. Inside contained a family portrait: a woman with cropped blonde hair, glasses on her face, had her arms wrapped tightly around two children, a dark-haired man standing slightly behind her. John found himself smiling at the young girl, no more than six, with her pale hair in pigtails, which was being playfully pulled by an older boy, another blond (family trait maybe, John though), while he pulled her close to him.

John found himself smiling at the photograph. The moment the camera captured was filled with innocent delight and whimsical carefreeness, a vast sense of un-restrictedness and contentment emanating from appearances. He suppressed a shiver as he felt warm hands touch his own to remove the frame from his grasp. He watched as Molly smiled melancholically, tracing the glass with her index finger.

"This was the last picture taken before Mum died," she sighed, a vacant smile touching her lips.

John, unable the find the words he needed to comfort Molly, wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her against him. He was content to just let his presence provide all the comfort needed, feeling it would benefit Molly more than words ever would.

"I think this might be one of the few pictures with Caleb inside – he preferred to be behind the camera," she continued.

"Caleb?" John asked, tightening his hold on her shoulder.

"My brother…"

John nodded slightly, deciding that the blond boy in the picture must have been the brother she spoke of, as the dark-haired man had obviously been her father. "I didn't know you had a brother," he said softly. Molly had spoken of both parents but no siblings.

He felt her shiver against him.

"It's complicated…" she said, voice no higher than a whisper, which John had to strain to hear.

"I'm a good listener," he said softly.

Before Molly had the chance to vocalise her response, John's phone vibrated loudly against the table, the tone demanding attention. Choosing to ignore it, John turned his attention back to Molly; however, this was short-lived as the phone rang once again.

Molly laughed, pulling from John's embrace as she placed the photograph back in its correct place.

Groaning, John sighed and closed his eyes. The moment had passed. He knew that Molly would not be willing to talk about the matter any further. "What do you want, Sherlock?" he complained under his breath as he retrieved the phone. He must have developed a keen sixth sense because he always knew when a message was from Sherlock or not – it usually interrupted something too. He looked at the screen – two messages.

_John, you're needed back at 221b.  
>-SH<em>

_Today would be nice, John.  
>-SH<em>

Did Sherlock honestly believe that he just stood around, aimlessly waiting for texts off him? John shook his head, quickly replying:

_Better be important, Sherlock_

Instantly, his phone lit up.

_It's a matter of utmost importance, in fact.  
>-SH<em>

John pocketed his phone, deliberately not replying to Sherlock's text message. Hating what he was about to say and not looking forward to the disappointed expression on her face, John turned to Molly. "I have to go – I'm sorry."

Molly grinned. "It's perfectly okay, John. To be honest, I'm rather surprise he let you out of his sight for this long actually."

John blinked. He had not expected Molly to laugh, smile and even joke when he announced that he was leaving on Sherlock's demand. The others usually rolled their eyes and walked away.

John arched a quizzical brow.

Molly laughed; eyes alight, as she raised her hands. "Teasing … I couldn't help it."

John smiled. It was this moment he realised just how different Molly was to his other girlfriends. "You sure it's okay?"

"Of course. You forget, John, that I am perfectly aware of how demanding Sherlock is."

He was aware of this. Perfectly aware. However, it was a simple thing that was easy to escape his mind. When one is used to being in a relationship where Sherlock is the cause of many late night arguments, it is somewhat of an odd sensation knowing that the current is completely understanding.

"I'll give you a lift home," Molly said, collecting her car keys from the side.

"Are you sure? Baker Street is the opposite direction to Bart's."

Molly nodded, smiling softly. "I'm not due in work for another few hours, so I'm free to taxi you around."

* * *

><p>Sherlock stood next to the window, watching and observing anything and everything. People were so predictably boring when it came to their regular routines. They scurried around like headless chickens, not understanding why they did what they did, only accepting that it was an essential part of their lives.<p>

A small silver car slowly pulled up outside and Sherlock watched as John climbed out the passenger door, walking around to the driver's side. The detective narrowed his ice-blue eyes, surveying the scene with a grimace. Why John insisting on publically flaunting his relationship was a mystery to Sherlock. He was never this annoying with his old girlfriends.

"What's this matter of utmost importance then, Sherlock?" John called out as he opened the door and ascending up the stairs.

"You took your time," he replied, a note of irritation crept into his voice.

John sighed, looking around the flat. "I came as soon as you text. I also see you redecorated the walls," he smirked, gesturing to the walls that now contained every piece of knowledgeable evidence needed to solve the case. "So?"

"Your sister makes cheap and relatively tacky woven jewellery, doesn't she?"

John bit the inside of his lip before answering the question, which, as with much of Sherlock's charm, came out as nothing but an insult.

"Yes, she does. Why?"

Sherlock roughly snatched the bracelet from the wall and held it up. "We need to pay her a visit. She may be able to tell us something about this bracelet. Something of importance, that is."

"You do realise that Harry lives up in Scotland, don't you? There's also the fact that you've never met either."

Sherlock gave John the look. "This is not a trip of pleasantries, John - this is a case. So, I firmly suggest you contact your sister and inform her that we will be arriving within the next ten hours, depending on the traffic."

John watched Sherlock walk away, muttering something under his breath. This was certainly one of those times where he need Molly's 'Little Book of Calm'. If that failed, he always had that glorious memory of Sherlock requesting a punch in the face. Yes, that would tie John over for a few hours at least. He hoped.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>Ok, I couldn't resist the homage to Martin and the 'Little Book of Calm' XD<p>

Also, I am please to tell you all the the Sherlolly is coming - slowly building it up. I'm hoping that I managed to subtly portray Sherlock slight irritation by it in this chap. If not, I really need to work on my skills a little more.

Thanks for all the reviews, guys. They are most appreciated and have given me that extra boost I needed in regards to this story. I don't think I have anything to worry by, do I :)


	10. Part X

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part X

* * *

><p>Molly ignored the mindless chattering around her as she sat in the cafeteria, absently biting into an apple as she looked over her notes. She occasionally contributed to the conversation that her colleagues were engaged in, adding her two pence about how Facebook isn't the centre of the universe and why Cadburys Creme Eggs should be an all year round chocolate experience.<p>

"Have you noticed how quiet is has been around here lately?" someone asked, sitting opposite Molly.

"That's probably because that weird detective hasn't been stalking the morgue," replied a female nurse, who was promptly quietened by a swift elbow in the side. "Oops…"

Molly looked up from her work without a smile. "I really wish you wouldn't refer to Sherlock as such. He doesn't _stalk_ the morgue; his line of work requires the use of our laboratory equipment. And he's not weird – he's unique."

The female nurse sniggered. "Unique? Isn't that another word for weird? As in … not normal?"

Molly's head shot up instantly, her eyes dangerously narrow and her cheeks dark with ire. "Just because Sherlock isn't 'normal' by the conventional social standards doesn't make him any less of a human being. Why should he be labelled just because he doesn't conform to _your_ standards?"

"I suppose you have to defend him considering the fact that you are dating his flatmate."

The metal chair fell back with a loud bang as Molly stood up, slamming her hands firmly on the table. "I defend Sherlock because someone has too. The problem with the world is that it's filled with narrow-minded and bigoted people with their ignorant views and hateful intolerance towards anything that isn't within the boundaries of 'the social norm'."

The pathologist roughly grabbed her clipboard and turned away from the table, fearing that if she remained there any longer, she would end up saying, and possibly doing, something that may jeopardise her job and remaining friendships.

"Also, for your information, the fact that I am dating John has nothing to do with anything," she stated firmly and strode away, oblivious to the stares and gossip that suddenly struck up. It mattered very little to her either way as she did not care what people thought of her. No, that was a lie – there were two people in her life whose opinion of her mattered greatly … they were really the only two people she had left.

People sometimes confused Molly so. She didn't understand how their thinking could be so different to her own. Was she really that different? Somewhere along the lines she must have fallen out of 'the social norm' and was now captured in between, desperately trying to claw her way into some kind of belonging and acceptance. However, she did not want to be a part of the crowd that she had moments ago degenerated. She never wanted to a part of that. Ever.

Once she was back in the comfort of the Path Lab, Molly sunk into one of the chairs and rested her head in her hands. She wished that John and Sherlock where here. John would comfort her and Sherlock would inform her of how pathetic she was being in letting mere close-minded specs of so-called humanity get to get. He would be blunt and to the point and she would appreciate it. Like she always did, though sometimes he did push a little too far. Nevertheless, despite the fact that she mattered very little to Sherlock, he mattered a lot to her. She valued him, his opinion too, and always considered him a friend.

Alas, she had not seen hide nor hair of John and Sherlock for at least two weeks. First, Sherlock demanded a trip to Scotland to gather evidence. Later, they rushed to the Cheshire area after a series of murders were eerily similar to 'The Bracelet Murders' (as John officially dubbed them). Hoping for a further lead, they were disappointed to learn that if was nothing but a copycat killer, who wasn't very smart and was later captured, thanks to Sherlock. It was all very unproductive, according to John when he phoned her this morning, before she left for work. She had been ecstatic to hear his voice, rather reluctant to admit that she missed him in fear of sounding too clingy, too early.

Molly was dragged from her reverie by the shrill sound of the phone, which she swiftly answered, replying in a most professional manner. "Dr Hooper speaking…"

It was a work related call from Dr Philip Archer, the replacement pathologist that joined Bart's over a month ago.

"Philip, how are things going now? I can hold the fort here if you need more time off work."

A family issue had suddenly arisen and Philip had to take leave from Bart's.

"Are you certain? Two days leave isn't that long for what has happened. I can handle your patients if that is what you are worried about."

He explained that he wished to be back at work and that it would be best for him to be productive in something instead of staying at home, waiting and stressing himself. He also explained that because both were working to such a limited deadline, a temporary pathologist would be in tomorrow to perform the patients on his list.

"Are you sure that's wise? Oh, you've worked with him at the hospital you were at before here? Alright then. I hope everything is ok where you are and I will see you back at work in a few days. Give my love to your family. Bye."

Placing the phone handle back on the receiver, Molly exhaled deeply. Walking back to the table, she picked up the clipboard and checked how many post-mortems Philip was due to perform tomorrow. Despite the fact that this other pathologist was fully qualified and well recommended; she would have rather performed them herself or assisted in the procedure. Quickly skimming through the names and information, Molly stopped and stared at one of the names. She always found it rather upsetting when a familiar name was on her list, or any list at Bart's, and always took it upon herself to perform the autopsy, stating that the reciprocate would have appreciated that a stranger wasn't opening them up and deciphering what caused their death.

Timothy McKenzie was on Philip's list. He had committed suicide, via cyanide, and during death had received a blow to the head. The report states that he had fallen and collided with a table.

Timothy McKenzie was best friends with her brother. They had all gone on a trip to celebrate getting into university together. That was in 1997. She had not seen Timothy since.

Knowing that he was on Philip's list, she knew that he would understand her insistence on performing the post-mortem herself, though she would confirm it with him shortly. She needed to do this – for her brother's sake.

* * *

><p>Silence.<p>

Molly stared in silence at the body on the slab, eyes wide. Her hands were shaking and her blood had run cold. It had taken all of her concentration to complete the procedure and stitch him back up. She had not shaken once during that. However, now it was complete, she was shivering, heart beading so fast that she was certain that she could hear it.

The findings of Timothy McKenzie's death had been most perturbing. The blow to the head had come first. It had not come from a table edge, as the wound was far too great in diameter. He had been struck with a rounded, blunt object, which Molly was guessing as a bat of some kind. That blow to the head was main cause of death. However, what was most surprising was the small puncture wound behind his left ear. He had no history of drug usage and no piecing. So, how was there a small pin prick there? A small insertion that happened after the death occurred, judging by the inflammation and time span. A small insertion that contain traces of cyanide around the wound. How was this possible when the suicide attempt had been orally administered? There had been no mention of the poison being injected into the body.

It was all too familiar to her. Molly recognised this.

Running on auto-pilot, the brunette rushed out of the room and ran to the main storage facility. Every autopsy file was kept inside these cabinets, even the oldest of ones. Knowing exactly where to go, Molly opened a cabinet and thumbed through the files until she reached the one she needed. With shaking hands, she removed the file and stared at the name:

Caleb Hooper.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>I've been wanting to write this part (and the next chapters) for a long time. The story is finally beginning to make actual progress now.<p>

Thanks for the reviews. Special shout out to you all:** kataraang0, Madelines, eccentricpetal** (love your story and will get round to reviewing soon :)), **Spyder** (I couldn't resist putting in Martin's line - also find it ironic that he was a doctor there too), **MrsCumberbatch** (if you think John is adorable now, wait until valentines day XD), **Sherlock Fan, Hellscrimsonangel**


	11. Part XI

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part XI

* * *

><p>Sherlock paced with a rapid stride about the room, mumbling broken sentences and jumbled words under his breath at such a speed that no one dared interrupt him. John had been moping around the flat, staring constantly at his phone, waiting for a reply. He would sigh loudly, make tea every fifteen minutes and turned the pages of the newspaper at an exaggerated rate. In the end, he threw the paper on the floor and sulked, cursing at his phone for the umpteenth time that day. He had even tried to engage Sherlock in conversation, thought this was entirely one sided, and demanded to know why Molly wasn't answering her phone, and hadn't been for the past two days. Had he done something to upset her? Was she annoyed that he had been gone for two weeks, without so much as a goodbye? She had seemed positively enthralled when he called her the morning before he arrived home, laughing, joking and saying that she had missed him and was looking forward to seeing him soon. Why had that all changed now? Maybe she was just busy? Growing annoyed at John's idiotic behaviour and misplaced priorities, Sherlock finally intervened, stating that should John continue to feel the need to subject him to the internal monologue of his mind, could he please be so kind as to ensure that there was at least three building between them beforehand. Needless to say, John left shortly after, claiming that he was needed at the surgery and wouldn't be back for another six hours. At least, this is what Sherlock assumed he said – he couldn't actually recall John leaving Baker Street to be perfectly honest.<p>

Five hours, forty three minutes and twenty nine seconds later, Sherlock was still pacing the length of the room, resembling that of an expectant father, however, the only think he was expecting was the sudden solution to the case to spring forth. Growing increasingly frustrated with the blanks in his mind, he sat down heavily on the sofa, running his hands exasperatingly through his hair and kicking the small table. Papers, an empty mug and John's favourite pen tumbled to the ground with a satisfying noise. It did nothing to help ease the twinge in Sherlock's mind thought, and neither was the loud pounding of the front door. It was a loud, impatient knock. Sherlock wasn't expecting anyone and it was too brisk to be a client. He ignored it, certain that if it was important, then Mrs Hudson would see to it – she was the Landlady after all.

The knocking continued, the sound becoming louder. The person outside had now gone beyond using their knuckles to gather attention to their full fist, and obviously by the absent of the slight scraping and shrill tapping, the person wasn't wearing a ring on their hand either. The female, evident by the initial knock and not naturally heavy handed, and was eager for attention, in a rush, and in desperate need of someone within the residence.

"Mrs Hudson!" he hollered. The banging was beginning to aggravate him.

His phone bleeped. Text. At least this was a sign that Mycroft wasn't trying to contact him for whatever absurd reason he may find. He checked his phone. From Molly? What on earth could she possibly want? Half tempted to ignore it, knowing that it would not be of use to him, he opened the message - his train of thought he been brutally destroyed anyway.

_Sherlock, can you please open the door?_

He arched a brow. So it was Molly at the door. Female, light handed and does not wear rings – correct in everything, just how he preferred things to be. What puzzled him, however, was why she was at Baker Street. Did she believe that John was here? If so, why bother to text him and not John? With the way the doctor had been hovering and constantly checking his phone for the past twenty four hours, he would not have missed a message from Molly stating that she was here at Baker Street. Curious.

Another text came through.

_Can you open the door?_

He read the text. The lack of name did not surprise him. Molly had used his name in the initial text, making it clearly obvious that she wanted his full attention. It was a serious and important matter. Now, the lack of manners undoubtedly indicate that Molly was becoming rather frustrated, somewhat flustered too. Now, the question mark showed that the text was still relatively open. He was been given a choice about whether he should open the door. Molly, being Molly, was still undeniably polite. He could see perfectly what was occurring just outside the front door. Molly was stood outside, with her back pressed firmly against the door, brows furrowing as she stared at her phone, exhaling dramatically loud.

One more text.

_Can you PLEASE open the door?_

Stressing and putting emphasis on a word, a magic word none the less, is a persuasive technique used – someway of subconsciously manipulating the unconscious mind. She was getting slightly more desperate now, having turned around and now resting her forehead on the door, not realising that if she pressed any harder the letters 221B would be engraved onto her forehead.

Another text.

_Door. Open. Now._

Molly was getting particularly nasty now. Obviously, when she gets too angry for words, her linguistic abilities fail and all grammatical capabilities disintegrate. All that academic prowess and knowledge for nothing. Shame on you, Molly Hooper. Shame. On. You.

Final text

_…_

Words failed him. Lifting the phone to his ear, the corner of his lips curling upwards, Sherlock counted three and a half rings before the reciprocate finally answered.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson," he said, voice full of false cheerfulness. "There seems to be somebody at the door and I am far too busy with the case to answer."

He waited for her reply.

"Oh, you're next door?"

Waiting furthermore.

Sherlock smiled. "You are a saint, Mrs Hudson."

Sinking further into the sofa, Sherlock closed his eyes, listening closely to the sounds that penetrated the once silent air. He could hear Molly gently banging her head against the door, hoping for her sake that it was the back of her head and not the front. He later heard a louder sound and the mumbled voices. Mrs Hudson had finally dragged herself from next door, abandoning the scratch cards – Mrs Turner was certainly the bad influence. The front door finally opened.

"I swear that sometimes Sherlock in a child trapped inside a man's body at times," he heard Mrs Hudson snort. Molly thanked her and walked inside. "There you go, love."

Mrs Hudson was in a rush to get back next door. The scratch card must have been half complete and by the irritation in the older woman's voice, she had two identical symbols.

Molly was taking the stairs, two at a time. "Sherlock," she cried out, slightly out of breath and nearly missing one of the top stairs.

"Molly, to what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise visit?" he said in a silky voice that failed to hide the slight amusement he was feeling at the present.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>What was only supposed to be three paragraphs ended up being a small chapter in itself. It kind of wrote itself to be honest. I just could not resist the idea of Molly texting and instead of replying, Sherlock is too busy analysing the change in text messages. Also, something to tie you over until I reveal the connection to everything. I'm so anxious to write the next chapter XD<p>

Kudos to: Amy A, lemurs366, thegoldheart, Hellscrimsonangel, MrsCumberbatch, eccentricpetal, Farie Insignias, Nocturnias.


	12. Part XII

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part XII

* * *

><p>Standing in the hallway, Molly gasped anxiously for air; her laborious breaths strained and sporadic. The tightness in her chest eased slightly as she savoured every inhalation of air that entered her lungs, circulating the blood around her body. She only hoped it would relieve the shaking in her legs, caused either by her near tumble down the stairs or her sudden erratic temperament. Neither of these mattered much to her. Hands full, Molly dared to take a step forward, groaning at the weariness of it. Obviously, she required more blood pumping down to her legs in order for them to fully function without her giving off the impression that she was slightly intoxicated. No, she had been living off caffeine, not alcohol, for the past forty eight hours.<p>

Walking the few feet that she did felt like a chore to her, almost as if every fibre of her being weighed her down. The caffeine must have been wearing off, she decided. She stared in front of her. Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the sofa, head pressed firmly against the back pillow, eyes closed and fingers loosely intertwined together. His facial expression was relaxed, giving off the impression that he was lost within the recesses of his own mind. He looked so at ease at this moment.

Face blank, Molly dropped the box she was caring on the table, the loud sound instantly causing Sherlock's eyes to open and pierce her own.

"I need to talk to you," she stated nonchalantly, arms hung loosely at her sides.

Sherlock stared, not moving an inch, as he noted the appearance of the woman standing in front of him.

Shoes: Flats, scuff marks along the lateral sides of the heels indicating an overpronated gait. Obviously worn for comfort purpose, not fashion. Poor quality materials used during production. Will need replacing soon.

Jeans: Too long in leg, evident by torn ends at bottom from walking. Freshly washed. Judging by the horizontal creases, left to dry on a radiator for days. Garments flattered figure much more than before. Belt fastened around waist on a tighter notch. A loss of three pounds - congratulations were in order.

Blouse: Creased and crinkled. Missing original second to top button – replacement not identical. Amateur stitching completed with white cotton instead of pale pink. Handled cat frequently. Needed to inform Molly about faux pas of wearing a black bra and light blouse.

Hair: Had Molly brushed it at all today? He was well aware that 'bedhead' was somewhat of a growing trend, however, in his honest opinion, it screamed immaturity and looked positively hideous.

Lastly, Sherlock observed Molly's face. Her complexion was undeniably ashen, her lips pallid, and her eyes were glassy and tired, emanating exhaustion. The thin layer of powder she wore, in an obvious attempt to hide the fact that she was exhausted beyond belief, did nothing to hide the darkness underneath her eyes. However, it was common knowledge that Molly knew next to nothing about the correct procedure in applying make-up. If she did, she would have realised long ago that dark colours did not compliment her exceedingly small lips. Perhaps he should advise John to purchase her lighter make-up for her birthday?

His conclusion was simple: Molly was exhausted: physically, emotionally and mentally. The question that undoubtedly needed answering was: why? Sherlock had no problems reading Molly. She really was like an open book to him. An open book with the annoying habit of wearing her heart noticeably on her sleeve, clear for the whole world to see. He honestly could not see any reason why she would work herself into such a state. From his own observations she was blissfully happy clinging onto John whenever he was within close proximity, wilfully sharing kisses at inopportune moments, which was highly distracting. Molly had become just as annoying as John in that retrospect. Even during that brief stint with 'Jim from IT', Molly was bashful and did not divulge any details, refusing to let the (Sherlock refused to use the word 'relationship' to describe it) fascination deter with her work.

Jim from IT – Jim Moriarty. The mere notion that Moriarty had used Molly as a method of gaining information on him silently infuriated Sherlock, to a certain extent. Three dates. Molly stressed that they only went on three dates before she called things off with 'Jim from IT'. Obviously the accusation of him being gay had scared Molly enough to end things, at least Sherlock assumed this to be the reasoning – he had not cared enough to enquire further. However, there was something twinging at the back of his mind. Why, after realising early on that Molly had no information to spare, did Moriarty continue the charade? It was illogical. Moriarty had nothing to gain from it. Three dates. There surely must be some agenda. Surely. What was significant about the number three? Three dates?

Pushing all thoughts of Moriarty from his mind, Sherlock focused once again on Molly. Judging by Molly's overall appearance and her avoidance of John, Sherlock hazarded a guess that it was relationship related. Despite the fact that relationships meant nothing to him, as they fell into the same category as the solar system and recent celebrity nonsense: useless information not worth saving, he had observed the fall of many a relationship thanks to one John Watson. It still did not give reason as to why Molly was here. Did she need advice on how to call things off with John? He could give her an intricate explanation as to why she and John were not compatible together, however, judging by Molly's reaction to 'Jim from IT' being gay, she wouldn't be able to accept the apparent truth.

"I have something to tell you, Sherlock," Molly said, voice strained.

"Unfortunately, Molly, I feel that this conversation might be one best shared with John," he replied in a nonchalant manner. John would return in approximately fifteen minutes, depending on the flow of traffic on the roads. They could have their tragic breakup and be done with this. John would return to being … well John. Molly would return to making sure coffee was readily available in the Path lab and flit about in his peripheral vision.

Molly regarded Sherlock with an odd gleam in her eye. "Sherlock, John has nothing to do with this. This is something that I really need to discuss with you – only you."

"I very much doubt that."

"You don't understand," she stated, shaking her head. Why was this difficult?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Evidently so," he sneered, voice full of ridicule and contempt.

Molly sighed, swallowing the anger that flew up inside of her. "This has to do with the case – I have something that might help."

Sherlock swiftly stood from where he was seated and was set in front of Molly within an instant. "While I do dislike repeating myself, Molly, I will for your sake: I very much doubt that."

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, would you just shut up and listen to me!" she spat, her entire body shaking, eyes flashing with anger as she tightened her hands around the box she moments ago placed on the table. "I have vital information regarding this case – you need to know! I can help," Molly said in a low tone, slamming the box once again.

A brief glimmer of something flashed across Sherlock's eyes as he regarded the woman in front of him. Her shoulders quivering, her breath quickened, her face flush with ire, eyes dark, lower lip slightly plump from biting it, supressing the further bout anger she wanted to direct towards him. The corner of his lip curled as he leaned closer, an inch away from Molly's face. "Prove it," he taunted, deep velvety voice husky with unspoken emotion.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>I was originally going to have one long chapter, but I decided to break it into smaller pieces so I would have more frequent updates. I'm loving writing the current chapter(s) so much. So much tension!<p>

I hope Sherlock isn't too OOC - I'm not used to writing serious fics (been doing the humour stuff for the past few years now and I don't want it flowing into this and ruining everything). Also, I hope I don't make him over analyse everything - dont want to bore you all with that lol

Once again - thanks for the reviews. Always appreciated :)

EDIT: Thanks to lemurs366 pointing something out about a fault I'd made with Sherlock, I've changed a section of this chapter. If this is the first time reading, then this note doesn't matter.


	13. Part XIII

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part XIII

...

"Fine," Molly retorted sharply, glaring deeply into Sherlock's eyes. She had once been told that eyes were actually the windows to the soul and right now she hoped that it wasn't a true statement. She could clearly see emotions, or lack thereof, flitting across his eyes and knew that, deep down, Sherlock wasn't the pretentious git that he made himself out to be – he was just complicated. However, just because she believed this, didn't mean that she had to thoroughly like it.

Without warning, Molly swiftly waved a file in front of Sherlock, placing a barrier between both of their faces. Despite not being able to see past the make-shift wall, she felt the slightly calloused fingers delicately graze her own as Sherlock attempted to remove the file from her grip. She took a step backward, removing the file from touching distance, purposely ignoring the incredulous expression that flashed across Sherlock's face. Padding across the room, Molly opened the file.

"Four days ago, Timothy McKenzie supposedly committed suicide through ingesting a lethal amount of cyanide. During his last moments of consciousness, he left a note explaining of his suicide. This was left in the kitchen, an obvious place where it would be found by his partner. During his overdose he collapsed, colliding with the bedside table, which caused a severe indentation to his skull."

Sherlock mulled over Molly's words, his brows firmly knitted together.

"This is the autopsy report, which I completed myself two days ago," she said, throwing the file offhandedly onto the table. "This happened whilst you were off chasing that copycat killer in the rather aptly named town of Holmes Chapel and around Crewe."

Molly watched as Sherlock remained silent, flipping through the pages at an accelerated rate, processing all the information confined within the paper. "Obviously, the findings contradict everything that McKenzie had _supposedly_ done," she confirmed, removing another file from the box and throwing it onto the table without so much as a second glance. "Fifteen years ago, 25th of November 1997, a male in his late teens supposedly committed suicide in this exact same manner – exact in every detail."

Throwing the McKenzie file down onto of the other, Sherlock regarded Molly with an inaudible, thorough stare. His expression was unreadable, unwavering blue eyes giving no hints of his thoughts as he slipped his hands into his pockets. "While I am tempted by the notion of a double murder, serial killers are ever so invigorating; I do believe you claimed to have something regarding my current case. After the spectacle you made, I'd hate to be left disappointed, Molly," he said, the corners of his lips curling despite the solemn tone used.

Molly refused to take the bait, remaining steadfast as she removed the one most important piece of evidence from the box. Two whole days she had spent agonising over every small piece inside the box. She had walked around her own home in a dazed trance, piecing everything together and connecting the almost invisible dots to form something spectacular. "This…" she begun, eyes piercing Sherlock's, gauging his reaction as she firmly held up a small woven bracelet, ten black pearls held securely in place by the thickened threads. "…was in the possession of the 1997 victim."

Sherlock removed the bracelet from Molly's delicate grip, turning instantly on the spot to compare this to the one he found near Connolly's body, removing it roughly from the wall. Both were identical in every way: identical size, identical material, identical golden clasp, and identical emblem on the fastening beads. Aside from the missing ten pearls and general deterioration due to age, both bracelets were matching.

Sherlock's mind begun to reel as he added these newly discovered pieces of information to his ever growing equation. Perching himself carefully on the arm of the sofa, Sherlock clasped his hands together, locking both bracelets within his grip, eyes closing. He began speaking the surge of words that wrapped themselves tightly around his brain. "Cyanide, a chemical compound, high in toxicity, causes severe intracellular asphyxiation frequently resulting in death - chemical formula written as CN. K + CN = Potassium Cyanide, an inorganic, colourless crystalline compound, which bears a striking resemblance to sugar. Extremely difficult to obtain, however, is still used for gilding and buffing jewellery. A jeweller, such as the one who crafted these bracelets, would have limited access to such a substance. First death occurred three months after the pearls were stolen and the victim coincidently had a bracelet within his possession, identical to that of the recently deceased victim. There must be a connection between then and now, other than the obvious.

"However, may I ask, did this come into your possession, Molly?" he inquired, inquisitiveness filling his insides.

"Had you bothered to look at the second file, even you would have gathered a connection, Sherlock," she replied, the biting sarcasm sounding foreign coming from her usually calm and soft voice.

Holding back his intended reply, Sherlock cracked his eyes open and roughly slid the top file across the table with little regard to where it stopped, exhaling loudly as he forced the bottom file open, absorbing all the report details. His eyes fell slightly as he read the words, processing everything in his mind. Blue eyes briefly flicked to the female before turning back to the page._Oh_…

On the night of November 25th, Caleb Hooper had taken his own life, ingesting a lethal amount of cyanide. Like McKenzie, he had impacted with a sharp corner, causing massive trauma to the skull. A sloppily written note had been left, detailing the hows and whys of his eminent death. Suicide, obviously. However, at the request of the family, an autopsy had been performed, revealing the following: trauma to the head was main cause of death and the cyanide had been injected into the body after the death – not ingested, as the supposed note claimed. Death was to be treated as suspicious; however, the case was closed shortly after by former Detective Inspector Bradley Sinclair. Sinclair was a corrupt officer, renowned for taking bribes, handling illegal drugs and overseeing many murder cases, resulting in false testimonies and wrongful arrests. He was arrested in 2001 and striped of his knighthood and all other honors. The case was never opened again.

Removing something from the box, Molly tilted her head slightly, the sardonic smile that touched her lips mirroring the intense stare she shot in Sherlock's direction. "Prove it? I certainly will, Sherlock Holmes – I certainly will…"

Icy blue eyes stared deeply into warm brown ones, clearly seeing the depth of the fire and determination that burned fiercely within them. That fire was not just confined to eyes though; it radiated and coursed through her veins, filling her with an intense passion that overtook her entire being. Gone was the once meek being, afraid of speaking out of line, not an ounce of willpower to call her own and with the monotonous appeal of drying paint. That being was now but a mere shadow of the ardent and driven woman who stood in her stead. She oozed a confidence that he had never seen in her before. It was interesting to say in the least. Had John truly brought out this other side to Molly Hooper, he wondered.

Placing both bracelets onto the table, Sherlock pushed himself up, his right elbow now resting comfortably in the palm of his left hand. He graced Molly with a slight smile, running a finger gently across his lower lip. "Please, be my guest," he told her in an impervious voice. He had not expected Molly to retort to his challenge of confirmation. This certainly was proving to be an eventful day after all.

Quickly retrieving a pen from the floor, Molly nodded and proceeded to pin an A4 photograph to the centre of the wall, where the bracelet once hung. The photograph contained a group image of seven males, all roughly the same age. Molly wrote full names above each individual.

"This is a photograph of my brother and his closest friends, which was taken shortly before he died. During late August, they all went on a short holiday to Blackpool, in celebration of getting into university together. They had been friends since primary school, enduring many hardships together – I won't bore you with details. So, naturally when they came across a man on the street selling seven, and only seven, identical bracelets, they decided to be overly sentimental and purchase them, mainly as a laugh. It was only a few months later that my brother discovered that these were stolen. Two days later, he was murdered – despite what the records state."

Attaching a yellowed newspaper cutout to the wall, Molly roughly dragged a line between that and the main photograph. "Caleb Hooper, died in 1997 – alleged suicide via cyanide poisoning." Another photograph was attached next to it. "His note."

Moving along, Molly continued to fix more pieces to the wall, all from newspapers or print-outs. "Martin Smith, died in 2006 – beaten to death during a robbery at his home. Oddly enough, there was no forced sign of entry throughout the whole of the house and nothing of value was taken." Another line was made to connect this to the photograph.

"Orion Fletcher, died in 2011 – alcohol poisoning." Molly connected a line between the photograph and the cutout that Sherlock had pre-attached to his wall. She did not need to explain this particular death to Sherlock.

"Graeme Connelly moved to America with his mistress, leaving behind a distraught ex and two children, a little girl of nine and an eighteen year old boy, Mathew. Despite everything that happened, Mathew still cared deeply for his father, going as far as to wear the bracelet that was originally Graeme's." Connecting a line from the news cutout, Molly continued, "Mathew Connelly, died in 2012 – drowning."

"Lastly, Timothy McKenzie, died in 2012 - alleged suicide via cyanide poisoning."

Connecting the last line from Timothy to the photograph, Molly heaved a small sigh, shoulders dropping slightly. Emotions coursed through her, feelings that she did not wish to emit before anyone, Sherlock especially. She was infuriated, distraught, enthralled, exhausted and just plain overwhelmed by everything that had been thrust upon her. It was a feeling that was ten times worse than any monthly womanly issue. This was something that a large slab of chocolate a bottle of fine merlot wouldn't fix - couldn't fix. Originally, she had only wished to quench her disturbance at the similarities between Caleb and Timothy's deaths. However, the more she read, the more she discovered. She found herself rummaging through the attic, tearing through all the boxes of Caleb's things. Her father refused to throw anything away – he simply hid them. Out of sight, out of mind. It was never that simple though. She noted everything she discovered, horrified by it all. Tears streamed down her face as she read through her brother's old journal – his memory that of a sieve and he insisted that he would write everything down, in fear of losing his mind altogether. Caleb had always been melodramatic about the smallest of things, making a performance out of everything he could. Once she had finished raking dry sobs from her throat, Molly began to find the connection. No, she didn't – Caleb had. He had suspected something was amiss and upon confronting it he…

"And then there was two," a silky voice whispered close to her ear. "Or, should I say one…"

The voice and soft breath so close to her ear broke Molly from her reverie, causing her to drop the pen as she instinctively turned, colliding with Sherlock's chest in the process. Not expecting him to be within such close proximity, Molly lost her footing, feeling her body wobble backwards. Mentally preparing herself for the fall, she did not expect to feel strong arms grasping her shoulders, pulling her close to prevent her fall.

Feeling her cheeks growing bright, Molly pulled herself from Sherlock, quietly thanking him as she knelt down to retrieve the fallen pen.

Indifferent to what had just occurred, Sherlock turned to face the wall that was now littered with papers. "I'm impressed that someone like you could successfully piece two and two together," he said, affixing the bracelet back in its original place. "Most cannot, relatively content to look through closed eyes."

Molly stared, mouth open ajar. She did not know whether she should feel insulted or complimented by Sherlock's offhand comment. In the end, she chose to ignore said comment, dismissing it as Sherlock's usual standoffish way.

"However, there is one invisible thread remaining," he informed her, holding his hand open behind him.

Blinking at first, Molly soon realised what he needed and placed the pen in his hand, watching as he firmly wrapped his fingers and began to mark the photograph. Slowly taking a step close, Molly watched as Sherlock crossed out the faces of all the victims and circling the last two remaining.

"Have you figured it out yet?" he asked her, curiosity lacing his voice.

Molly turned up head upwards, brows furrowing and eyes full of confusion as she studied him. "Figured what?"

Sherlock smirked as he regarded Molly, shaking his head gently from side to side. "Which one of these two is the murder…"

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>Just to inform you all that, thanks to lemurs366 pointing something out about a fault I'd made with Sherlock, I've changed a section of the last chapter. It is the section where he is analysing Molly. I changed it to more choppy statements instead of long exclamations. I'm sure you all would rather an IC Sherlock :)<p>

Anyway. This chapter had been written and the re-written many times - far too many. I originally uploaded one version, slept a little, read it and decided it was just wrong. It was lacking. I decided to stick to my original idea, making this chapter much longer. In fact, I'm still not satisfied but no matter how much I write, it isn't right. Oh well, sucks I guess.

Also noticed that John has been absent for a while - I might let him have a cameo in the next chapter :)

Oh, I couldn't help but give a little shout-out to where I live lol

Thanks goes out to: lemurs366, eccentricpetal, Hellscrimsonangel, Melanie, Farie Insignias, thegoldheart, symbolic moons and Nocturnias.


	14. Part XIV

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part XIV

...

Once he was fully content that all the files were organised to his own standards, and that the lights were switched off, John donned the jacket that hung on the back of the door and grabbed a hold of his leather case, closing the door firmly behind him. He bade goodbye to his colleagues, even receiving a small smile from Sarah (she was still not on fully friendly terms with him), and removed his phone from his pocket. Three text messages. Boy, did he ever feel popular.

_U left ur fone charger at my place. Im gonna come dwn 2 london soon – wil bring it then. Gives me a chance 2 meet this gf of urs :D_

27 Feb, 2012 09:37AM  
>From: Harry<p>

So that had been what happened to his charger. He was worried he had lost it somewhere on the train. Also, Harry was planning on paying him a visit sometime? To be perfectly honest, he was rather wary about introducing her to Molly. After all, the last girlfriend he introduced to Harry decided to turn lesbian and leave him, even going so far as to marry her. He supposed it was a good thing that he and Clara were never that serious. He wasn't bitter about the ordeal … he just did not want a repeat episode. He was well aware of Harry's type of girl: sweet and kind, the patience of a saint (one has to be when in the company of Harriet Watson), a good sense of humour, natural looking (she hated manufactured girls who were more plastic than flesh) and above all-

_Dear God! Molly is exactly Harry's type_!

Swiftly moving along to the next message.

_Sorry for missing your calls. Had a lot on my mind and will tell you everything later. Promise. See you at yours after work Xx_

27 Feb, 2012 12:12PM  
>From: Molly<p>

Leaving the Surgery, thoroughly pleased to be finished for the day, John didn't hold back the smile that formed on his lips upon seeing the message from Molly. He wasn't going to lie and say that he wasn't worried about Molly, because he was. He had been worried about her before he left for Scotland, and then Cheshire. The last conversation he engaged her in had left him slightly on edge and relatively unnerved. Even after she brushed it aside, claiming it to be unimportant, he felt that she was holding back. He needed her to realise that he would be there for her whenever need be.

At least he'd get to see her though, which turned his smile into a beaming grin.

Now for the last message.

_We need milk.  
>SH<em>

27 Feb, 2012 01:04PM  
>From: Sherlock<p>

How? How could they need milk? He was 100% certain that he'd left four whole pints (minus amount used for one cup of tea). He was certain of this because he was the one who opened the fresh carton, pouring the milk into his drink. He would have realised if he'd accidently poured four pints of milk into a mug of tea. No, this was the one mystery that he needed to solve, even if he died trying.

**Fact One**: Sherlock does NOT have milk in his coffee.  
><strong>Fact Two<strong>: He (John obviously) only used approximately 30ml of milk this morning, leaving approximately 2242ml remaining.  
><strong>Fact Three:<strong> Sherlock does not eat cereal or anything that would involve milk.  
><strong>John's Conclusion<strong>: Either Sherlock sits in his chair, drinking pint after pint of milk, which John find's highly unlikely, or the other simply pours it down the sink, giving him another excuse to order John to purchase more. Perhaps this is a game Sherlock plays. He calculates how many times he can send John down to the shop to buy milk, and then tries to beat that total the following week.

Obviously, his deductions were not on par with Sherlock's – that much was obvious.

It has been a long and weary day, after all. That is the excuse he's sticking too.

Oh, another text.

_Fancy a pint later?_

27 Feb, 2012 01:33PM  
>From: Mike<p>

"Christ yes!" he replied quickly.

* * *

><p>Placing the coins on the counter and bidding farewell to the shop assistant, John smiled as he pushed open the door, squinting his eyes as the sun's magnificent rays shone down on him. A dry laugh escaped his lips as he recalled the front page of <em>The Daily Express:<em> _'Temperatures set to drop all across the UK, with London facing it strongest snowfall in decades'_. Upon fully opening his eyes, seeing the little bright flecks of white light dance across his vision, he could see how this could be mistaken for a snowfall. It was a simple mistake. Oh, who was he kidding? It made him wonder whether the people down at the Met Office had a chart of weathers attached to the wall and one lucky member of staff would throw a dart, choosing the day's weather prediction. It made perfect sense to John. After all, who could forget fateful events leading up to the Great Storm of 1987?

Stealing a quick glance towards his watch, John groaned - twenty minutes later than he had originally anticipated. The fault was entirely his own. He should have realised that something was amiss when one of the other doctors asked if he could see to one of their patients, as a last minute emergency. John, being the overly compliant and dependable person that he was, or idiot being the favoured word of Sherlock, agreed. The patient turned out to be the same middle-aged man that came in at exactly 12:45pm, every Monday, feigning some illness – John mentally diagnosed him as a bearer of Munchausen Syndrome and would be sure to inquire about this during his next shift.

Turning the corning onto Baker Street, John had never been so pleased in his life, mainly because he could get rid of the large carton of milk that was now making his fingers go ridiculously numb. A measly ten minute walk seems much longer when ones fingers are threatening to fall off. The next time the shop assistant asked if he required a bag, he would accept. Try as he might to save the environment, he cherished the feeling in his fingers more.

After a brief minute of fiddling in the bottom of his bag, trying to find his keys, John finally managed to enter his home. He had seen Molly's car outside, which made him wonder whether both her and Sherlock were sitting in an awkward silence. What he had not expected to see, however, was Molly standing ridiculously close to the wall with Sherlock positioned behind her, way-too-close for John's liking, hands firmly on her shoulders.

"You're thirty three minutes late, John," Sherlock stated bluntly, not looking over in his direction.

"Something came up at last minute," he replied.

"In future I suggest you inform the hypochondriacs that line up outside your office door to stop wasting valuable time – this is far more important."

"Oh, I couldn't agree more, Sherlock. Earning money to pay these overdue bills so we can continue to live is a complete waste of time." Rolling his eyes and shaking his head from side to side, John placed his bag on the sofa but kept a firm hold on the milk.

Upon hearing John's voice, Molly removed herself from Sherlock's grip, smiling coyly as she quickly ran her fingers through her hair, allowing it to cascade over her shoulders. She bit her lip lightly, walking a few feet before stopping, over linking her arms and standing awkwardly, casting her eyes slightly downwards. Tilting his head, John observed, silently laughing at her behaviour. She currently reminded him of a naughty schoolgirl who had been reprimanded for misbehaving and was currently awaiting punishment. The sudden image of exactly that erupted in his mind and John fought hard to shake it off. Now certainly was not the time for such gratuitous imagery.

"John, you'll have plenty of time to mentally undress Molly once this case is closed," Sherlock sneered, the corners of his mouth turning into a smirk.

Tearing his eyes away from Molly, he rapidly looked around the room, hitching a breath. "O-no, I … got the milk," he stammered, a hint of embarrassment filling his voice as he held up the carton.

"Not important," he claimed, waving his hand in a dismissive manner. "I need you to stand in front of this wall."

John blinks, raising his brows in surprise as he stares at Sherlock for a long second "I'm sorry?" he murmurs.

Sherlock motioned the wall with his hand. "Stand here."

"Is this like being sent to the naughty corner?" John laughed, the noise, which was a tad higher than he would have liked, filled the room.

Sherlock crossed his arms, a sly smile cross his features, as he took a small step forward. "That depends entirely on which_naughty corner_ you are thinking of though, John," he said in a suggestive voice.

"To the wall then."

"You have precisely fifty-six seconds to get well acquainted with everything on that wall before we go to Scotland Yard," he informed John, patting him on the shoulder before removing his coat from the back of the sofa. "Molly, don't just stand there with your mouth open. Why don't you make yourself useful and put away the milk."

"O-okay," she muttered meekly, removing the carton from John's outstretched hand and making her way to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, she took a step back as she spotted a small jar with a large toe in it. "Sherlock, are you aware that you have a large toe in a pickle jar?"

"Really? I would never have realised that without your brilliant observational prowess. Thank you, Molly," he sneered, voice dripping with sarcasm as he tied his scarf around his neck.

"No need to be such a dick, Sherlock," John groaned, turning from the wall. "What is this all about anyway?"

"Why must I constantly be surrounded by idiots?" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands over his eyes.

"Just luck, I guess." He dug his hands into his pockets. "Oh, just so you know – I don't have any change for a cab."

"I wouldn't worry about that too much, John. Molly will be driving us there."

Taking a step out of the kitchen, suppressing the image of a rotting toe into the back of her mind, she pointed to herself. "I will?"

"Of course," he smiled, walking out of the flat and leaving Molly and John alone.

John smiled, gesturing for Molly to leave first so he could lock up behind him. She thanked him, waiting just outside of the door. "Oh, by the way," Molly said suddenly, grasping a hold of John's tie and running it over her fingers. "I love a man in a suit."

"Oh, do you now?" John replied in a smooth voice, feeling Molly pull his tie down. "You do realise how distracting you're being, don't you, Miss Hooper?"

"Really?" she said, moving slightly closer to John, pulling his tie tightly. "Then I guess you won't want me doing this then?" She kissed his right cheek. "Or this?" She kissed the other. "Or even this?" She leaned forward and placed her lips upon John's, sucking gently before pulling back to look at him.

"That can be an exception, I suppose," he whispered in her ear, pressing his lips to the smooth skin just under.

"John! You know the rules: case first, everything else after," Sherlock's voice shouted up the stairs, full of irritation.

Molly laughed, releasing John's tie. "We can't keep Sherlock waiting, can we?"

"Of course not."

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>The past couple of chapters have been fun to write and I've even managed to have a bit of everything. I'm glad to have John back though ... it just isn't the same without him. Plus, the more him and Molly are together, the more it will (even more so) bother Sherlock, which is the main thing :)<p>

I'm glad you're all enjoying this so far. I know my mystery/case is no where near as good as a proper one ... but it will have to do.

Anyway, thank yous for reviews now: eccentricpetal, Tokigami, Nocturnias, Lawlliet and olivetrees

Oh, just one more thank you to all the readers. I certainly did not expect: 74 reviews, 14,134 hits, 26 fave story and 71 story alert XD


	15. Part XV

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part XV

...

Pulling the front door firmly to a close, John turned to see Sherlock standing next to a silver Nissan Micra, scrutinising every detail with keen eyes.

"I would have assumed that someone of your income could afford a more respectable car, Molly," he taunts, peering through the window, absently tapping on the glass as if he expected it to suddenly fall through.

"I'll have you know that my car has been very reliable to me over the years," the female responded, removing the keys from her pockets. "Though, we have had our fair share of mishaps over the years." Walking closer to the car, Molly ran her fingers across a scratch near the back wheel. "Nothing too serious."

"And doesn't it show? Two – no three paint jobs. Newly replaced bumper. Small crack in the rear-view mirror. Burnt out taillight. Multiple scratches across the bonnet and rear wheel fender. Recently failed MOT. It's a wonder you've not been pulled over yet."

"Raphael does enjoy living on the edge," Molly laughed, walking around to the driver's side.

"You named your car Raphael?" John asked. Having never learnt how to drive himself, John never saw the fascination in naming a car. He found the notion rather odd, to be honest, especially when taking into consideration that cars are gender neutral. They're inanimate objects, for Pete's sake – why name it? Plus, it only causes him to recall past humiliations. How was he supposed to know Mike was talking about a car when he asked if he fancied taking Cindy for a ride with him? He knew that university years are supposed to be excruciatingly wild, however, that was too much, even for John. It also did not help one iota that Mike was dating (now married) a girl called Cindy. It was a simple mistake that anyone could have made.

"After the Italian painter?" Sherlock asked. It made perfect sense to Sherlock, as Raphael was a great renaissance painter. Perhaps Molly was an aficionado of fine art.

"No, the turtle," she smiled, unlocking the car. "I'll allow you two to fight over who sits where," Molly informed them both before sliding into the car and closing the door with a light slam.

John couldn't help himself from laughing at Molly's response and especially at Sherlock's bemused reaction. What made it all the better was that, unlike Molly, John was perfectly aware that Sherlock had no clue about the existence of the _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_, thus making him genuinely confused. Not that it truly mattered as, knowing Sherlock, that conversation had already been deleted but it kept John amused for a short while.

"I'll take the front seat then," Sherlock said, nonchalantly, opening the door.

"Do you not think it would make more sense for me to sit up front?" John asked, moving quickly to Sherlock's side. "I'm pretty certain that there is some sort of car etiquette that requires the boyfriend to sit in the front."

Pushing the door to, Sherlock looked at John. "How tall would you say you are, John?"

Confusion flashed across his eyes. "What? What does that…"

"Answer."

"Five foot six – give or take a few," he replied.

"Five feet and six point six inches – to be precise. Now, would you please be so kind as to hazard a guess to how much taller I am?"

John scrunched his brows together, directing a bewildered stare at the other. Prepared to remark in a snide manner, the look that Sherlock shot at him convinced him otherwise. "Around six foot?"

"Six feet and zero point five inches exactly, John."

"Really? You know what, Sherlock? With the coat and scarf, that point five inches really does make a difference," John sniggered.

Purposely ignoring John's idiotic and frankly useless comment, Sherlock began to explain his observation. It was perfectly obvious but he would humour John. Basically, one ridiculously tall being sat in the back of a ridiculously small car poses many complications for the driver. He was confident that John would not wish to cause any serious accidents due to his insistence at sitting up front. The fifty nine percent chance of a collision, causing approximately seven casualties (pedestrians and other vehicles being taken into consideration), and resulting in two eminent deaths, was enough to persuade John otherwise. Gullible John, with his feelings and sentiment, was so easy to manipulate at times. Sherlock decided against informing him that the sole reason behind this was due to the fact that sitting in a cramped back seat would be terribly uncomfortable and bad for his posture.

Once the seating arrangements were made, both males took their respected places in the car, closing the doors behind them. The interior of the car was not all what Sherlock had been expecting. True, he had stolen a brief glance through the window; however, the experience of being inside the car was much different. One thing that struck him was how surprisingly clean everything was. The floor showed signs of regular vacuuming. The carpet was new, it did not match the rest of the interior design. The dashboard was free from dust particles. The smell – lavender? No, not lavender … another overpowering floral scent that wafted from the blue cat figurine that hung from the mirror. The colour was vivid and the scent strong – newly installed. Jasmine … with peach. Odd combination. Cds in the glove box – all in boxes. Tissues, wet wipes, chewing gum, a bottle of water and pain relief. Obviously, Molly puts in a great deal of precision into the maintenance of her car. Interesting.

Molly turned the ignition, starting the car, glancing up at the rear-view mirror as she made eye contact with John. "How was work?" she asked, shifting the car into drive, slowly pulling away from the curb.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why bother engaging in pointless conversation?

"I was actually surprised to get a call back because the doctor I was covering for is back off maternity leave and no one else is off," he replied.

"It must be that magnetic personality of yours – they just can't get enough," Molly sniggered, absently checking her mirror. Great, she had a tailgater behind her. Just what she needed.

"That must be it," John laughed, flashing a toothy grin.

"I don't suppose you could skip to the part where you just shut up, could you?" Sherlock interrupted, deadpan.

John shook his head, grinning. Molly, on the other hand, regarded Sherlock with a curious expression before smiling, pressing a button on the dashboard. "Ok, music it is then."

Upon hearing the overly enthusiastic melody, a series of gender confused mumblings, and an auto-tuned voice singing lyrics that made no sense whatsoever, Sherlock's eyes shot open. Molly was tapping to the beat on the steering wheel, mouthing the words silently.

"You cannot honestly consider this monstrosity to be music," he declared abruptly, visibly offended by sounds that flowed from the radio.

"As a matter of fact, I do," she informed him, not too surprised by his lack of approval. "I enjoy having something upbeat to drive to."

Crossing his arms, Sherlock sighed. "There is a huge difference between 'upbeat' and rubbish, Molly. This, like everything else that you seem to find amusing, is rubbish."

"It's a matter of personal preference," she argued, narrowing her eyes at the car behind her. "Get off my arse, will you?" she growled under her breath. She really hated tailgaters – with a red hot fiery passion.

"No it's not," he stated, ignoring John's warning voice behind him. "The fact is that the melody, if it can actually be classified as that, is being mutilated by senseless words and a female vocal that resembles a dying cat."

"What would you rather we drive to?"

"Silence."

Molly arched a fine brow, briefly glancing at John through the rear-view mirror. "How about I stop the car and then you can walk to Scotland Yard – John and I will meet you there. You'd have all the silence you could possibly need then."

"Sounds like an ideal solution," John agreed with a gleefully sly smile, a low snigger emitting from his mouth. "Maybe if we ask nicely, he may even tell Mr Tailgater, behind us, to back off."

"What a fabulous idea, John," Molly beamed, a mischievous played across her face as she peered behind her. "What say you, Sherlock?"

The dark-haired man merely sneered at the attempts to improve the situation.

"We'll listen to the radio then," Molly suggested, ejecting the CD and handing it to Sherlock. "Could you please put this back in the box?"

Feeling Molly carefully placing the disk in his hands, a look of disgust crossed Sherlock's face as he threw it languidly over his shoulder, scarcely missing John's head. At this point he was severely tempted to exit the car and walk, indulging himself in the crevices of his own mind would be a rather blissful retreat.

Another ridiculous cheerful song played through the radio, only this time some powerful force from above must have possessed Molly, causing her to succumb to the desire to sing along, albeit quietly.

"_Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir_…"

While Molly's sing capabilities were not on par with the best of the best, she outranked many of the hopefuls (or hopeless) that graced the stage of the X-Factor. Truth be told, John was actually rather impressed. It was not just the singing that caused him to smile fondly; it was the fact that she displayed such a feat in the presence of Mr Critical-High-And-Mighty-Too-Good-For-The-Back-Seat Holmes. A radiant smile graced her features as she sang the words, tapping along to the beat, constantly glancing up to meet his eyes in the mirror, her own full of laughter. It was a shame that this would be shattered in a matter of moments, because Sherlock was bound to intervene with a snide remark.

"Are you aware of what you are actually singing?" he sniped, corners of his lips curling.

"Don't worry, Sherlock, I'm not subliminally propositioning you through music," she teased, voice soft and sultry, tone melodious. "John, maybe…"

Needless the say, the remaining journey was conducted in silence after Sherlock abruptly turned the radio off and demanded that John stop laughing.

"He won't be driving so close to me when I suddenly slam my breaks on," Molly growled suddenly, gripping the wheel tightly. What went through the mind of the average tailgater? Molly was desperate to know.

"Don't bother – we're here," Sherlock said.

Nodding her head, Molly followed the instructions and turned into the car park, carefully reversing into a space close to the main entrance. As soon as the car came to a halt, Sherlock opened the door and strode away, coat billowing in the breeze.

"Are you all right with this?" John asked Molly as he slid out of the car, stretching his legs slightly. While he may not be Sherlock Holmes, he had witnessed enough of the wall to piece everything together with ease, immediately finding the common denominator.

"Yeh," she replied, locking the car.

Looking at Molly, he gently pulls her hands into his own, delicately tracing the outer part of her hand. "That did not sound convincing one bit," he lightly chastised her, voice striking a note of concern. "I'll ask again: are you all right with this?"

She stared at John's hands for a second before meeting his eyes, nodding once again. "I am all right with this, honestly. It's just … difficult. It's almost as if I have to relive everything all over again."

"I'm here for you," he responded, softly entwining their fingers. "You know that, don't you?"

Closing her fingers, tightly locking their hands together, Molly smiled. "I know."

"Shall we?" he prompted.

"Yeh," she whispered, nervously squeezing John's hand as they made their way to the entrance of Scotland Yard.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>Who would have thought that a simple car journey, which would only take approximately ten minutes, would require a whole chapter to itself. Ah well, the next chapter will have the introduction of Donovan and Anderson, as well as Lestrade XD<p>

Thank you to all who read, reviewed and/or added to a fave/list of some kind :)

**aqkea2noh:** lol. That's what Sherlock does best though. As for John ... it really depends how he decides to interpret what 'deducting without him' means :)

**eccentricpetal**: I'm so happy that you're enjoying it. Don't worry - Sherlock's various reactions will be rearing shortly XD

**Nocturnias**: The milk was something that I was wary about - I didn't want it to sound too ridiculous. However, whenever I read fics people always emphasis the milk things ... so that is my take lol. Glad you enjoyed it :D

**olivetrees:** Sherlock hear's everything XD I had to add the man in suit just because Benedict looks so handsome in his suit, as does Martin, and Andrew - hell, I think you get the drift. Thank you for adding my fic to you C2 - big honour :D

**Tokigami:** It made MY inner John/Molly fangirl scream too!

**Mia F**: Don't worry - I practically ship Molly with every male (minus Anderson, of course) on the show lol. The fact that you don't know what to expect is good because it means I am able to keep you all in suspense as to who will end up with who. John/Molly? Sherlock/Molly? Molly deciding all men are not worth it and running away to become a nun? John and Sherlock joining the circus (undercover)? Who knows lol

**thegoldheart**: Naughty John is brilliant. He doesn't get enough Molly love anyway. Also, if you're a terrible human being for enjoying - what does that make me lol

**lemurs366**: Changed! Thank you for the review - your insight always helps me :)


	16. Part XVI

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part XVI

...

Who would have thought that walking through a twin set of glass doors could be such a daunting task? Molly had not known what to expect as she stared in awe at the huge rotating sign that read 'NEW SCOTLAND YARD' and gaped at the sheer number of mirrored windows and glass panes, amazed at the optical illusion of extensive openness that surrounded the towering building. True, she had seen Scotland Yard before … she had driven past the building many times, never batting an eyelid. However, she had never been inside. Due to the extensive security surrounding the Yard, which was understandable, public access was strictly prohibited. The several officers that were situated outside, dedicated to keeping a vigil of the perimeters, all greeted John, some by name and others with a curt nod.

John promptly released Molly's hand, not that the female noticed as she spun around on the spot, absorbing every fine detail with an expression of pure astonishment, mumbling words under her breath. The middle-aged receptionist regarded him with a small smile, thought the corners of her lips seemed tightly pursed, her overly fine brows twitched and her manhandling of the keyboard was a clear indicator that she was slightly irritated. Sherlock's doing, no doubt. Speaking of Sherlock…

"You are aware that you can't keep coming and going as you please, right? This isn't a playground that you can just use for your own pleasure, you know," said a female, the distinct voice accentuated the annoyance in her tone. "This is a place of serious work, full of professionals – not amateurs, such as yourself."

"If the professionals were competent enough to conduct this serious work that you speak so highly of, then I wouldn't be required here now, would I?" came the dry retort.

John followed the tirade of voices, tapping Molly's shoulder as a gesture to follow. The walk was not a long one. Rounding the corner, the were faced with the sight of Sherlock leaning lazily against the wall, looking obviously bored, and Sgt Sally Donovan standing to the side, a deep scowl covering her face, jaw clasped tight and clenched fists at her side.

"And just who is this?" she demanded firmly.

"I do believe you have already been formally introduced before; however, allow me the honours of reiterating this for you," he said, sarcasm drawn across his face. "Sergeant Sally Donovan, this is Doctor John Watson. Doctor Watson – Sergeant Donovan."

Narrowing her eyes, she glared up at Sherlock. "I was referring to the other one that followed you in today."

Molly took a step forward but was stopped by a gentle hand on her shoulder. She turned to look at John, clearly reading the message in his eyes, which said 'just don't bother – it's not worth it'.

"She's with me," Sherlock informed her, pushing himself away from the wall.

"They're not pets, you know," Sally groaned, crossing her arms tightly across her chest and tapping her heel loudly on the ground. "You can't just slap a collar on them, pull their leads and drag them around whenever you get bored."

"Molly is more John's pet than she is mine. However, I am beginning to believe it is actually the other way around – all things considered," he smirked, thrusting his hands into the depths of his pockets and turned on the spot, striding down the corridor. "We mustn't dawdle. I do, after all, have other pressing matters to attend."

Taking a deep breath and flexing her finger, her mind fighting with the array of irate emotions coursing through her body. Finally, she gave mouth to her feelings. "That freak is insufferable."

John and Molly exchanged a brief look before following lead.

* * *

><p>Sherlock strode past the rows of identical desks, ignoring the seething stares that were shot in his direction. It mattered very little to him what these people thought. Perhaps if they were able to comprehend the evidence given to them beforehand, logically deciphering the facts and discovering obvious truths, they would not have to whittle away their time being overly avaricious. It was transparently obvious that every person in the building was borderline useless and had no real desire to be there. They look, but they do not see. They see, but they do not observe. They observe, but they do not understand. They are basically blind to what is laid out in front of them. This is what infuriated Sherlock most. The simplicity of the average, human mind.<p>

"Hard at work I see, Lestrade."

Pausing from eating the blueberry muffin in his hand, a steaming cup of coffee in the other, Lestrade looks up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway to his office, hand still grasping the handle.

"Coffee break," he simply replies.

"I need the suicide note from the latest victim. I also require a handwriting sample. I do believe he was arrested for shoplifting in 2010 – his signature from the statement will suffice. I also need to see past evidence from the Smith file back in 2006 – preferably photographic evidence of the body and surrounding. Lastly, you will need to reopen a case from 1997, Caleb Hooper. Once again, all photographic evidence will be required."

"Do you think you've got a lead?" he answered, taking a sip of coffee before placing it on his desk, careful to avoid the disarray of paperwork. The last thing he needed was to accidently cause a spillage, resulting in him having to work late again. No, he was determined to go home and spend the evening with his children. He needed to make the most of being able to see them like that because once the divorce was finalised, and he moved out, his two girls would be staying with their mother and he would be pushed into the role of 'part-time father'. He was dreading it already.

"I know I've got a lead," Sherlock corrected, pushing the door open fully with a small bang. "Two in actual fact."

Lestrade made a note of the documents that Sherlock asked for. He would send Anderson in a moment. "Two?"

Stepping into the office, Sherlock's eyes briefly stopped on the same white and green patterned walls that continued throughout the whole of Scotland Yard. Green – calming and refreshing. White – neutral, implies sterility. The combination of the two would endeavour to create a relaxing and comfortable working environment. It was a pity that it obviously did not work.

"Two at the moment, however, one will soon be the next victim," he replied casually, picking up a trinket off the desk before rolling his eyes and placing it back. Sentiment was sicking at times.

Lestrade reached for the telephone, lifting the retriever and placing it to his ear. "How so?" he asked Sherlock, pressing a pattern of numbers on the phone. "Anderson! My office, pronto!" he said into the phone before replacing it back in the cradle.

"Ten stolen black pearls. Seven bracelets. Seven males. Five current deaths. One soon to be dead. One murder. You do the math, Lestrade."

"So, you're saying that these pearls were sold in bracelets to a group of seven lads, and one member discovered this and is going around killing the others?" he inquired, placing his elbows on the table and resting his chin in his hands. "It's a bit extreme, don't you think?"

Placing both hands firmly on the end of the desk, Sherlock leaned forward. "These pearls once belonged to Princess Diana and were stolen during her funeral, Lestrade. That alone is enough to make their worth contingent. Take into consideration that each pearl is perfectly rounded – an exceedingly rare quality in pearls. Also, let us not forget the net value of an individual pearl, which is far more than what you will earn in a lifetime (untaxed). Now, imagine the worth of ten pearls. People have committed far worse, for far less. With that fully in mind, no - I do not think this is extreme. This, Lestrade, is ambitious."

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>And thus ends one more chapter. Giving a little more away about the case as well. Hopefully it's ok.<br>Also, my introduction to Donovan ... man, despite being such a bitch in the series, I can't help but love writing her. And Lestrade - he's just tops. I also love the idea of him being a father ... he just has this paternal way about him. It's a shame his wife was/is cheating on him :(

Lastly, I could not help but put Moulin Rouge in the last chapter. So many innuendos can come from it! Be grateful that I didn't have 'Mr Watson' by Kesha lol

I was wondering something. Sherlock/Molly is obviously Sherlolly. What is John/Molly? Is it Jolly? If so, does that make my fic a Jolly Sherlolly? Sounds great, ay!

Thank yous go out to my readers and reviewers - love you guys :D

**olivetrees:** Thank you for the crit. I have to admit that I do easily confuse those things (blame my dyslexia) but if anything is screamingly obvious, please feel free to let me know - I can learn from it :)  
><strong>eccentricpetal<strong>: Ah, one of Sherlock's infamous 'unknown emotions' lol. I'm certain he was feeling it too! How could he not?  
><strong>MuteBanana<strong>: Sad, I know - I did Google the heights for Martin and Benedict. I thought it would be best to use the exact number than making it up  
><strong>Tokigami<strong>: Molly has grown a lot in confidence ... and in character too, I hope. I think John is good for her :D And yes, there was hints there.  
><strong>Hellscrimsonangel<strong>: There will be plenty of Sherlolly - don't worry. True, it's not fully romantic at the moment but I like the idea of it starting very slow ... plus, you have all that gooey tension between them. I also like to make some of the hints rather double-sided (at the moment) - that way people can read as much as they like into it.


	17. Part XVII

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part XVII

...

"What do we have to go by?" Lestrade asked, drinking the rest of his coffee and discarding the disposable cup in the bin, along with the remaining muffin – he would not have the chance to consume it either way. Standing up abruptly, forcing the chair backwards, he sifted through a pile of papers that were within arm's length, removing several pieces, which he slid towards Sherlock. His notion of paperwork was relatively easy. Important cases, in his own rightful opinion, are within easy reach of his chair, thus meaning he could simply remove the piece from the pile without disruption, and older cases, or work that he felt was not within his jurisdiction, are stored towards the end of his desk. The principle behind this, he theorised, was significantly self-explanatory.

"Virtually next to nothing," Sherlock replied dully, swiftly removing a folded piece of paper from the inner pocket of his coat.

Lestrade leaned over the table, watching as Sherlock unfolded the paper and placed it on the table next to the others, carefully rubbing the crease indentations out. "What, nothing at all?"

"Had you actually listened to what I said then you would have clearly understood the implications. Nothing is what you have, whereas I, on the other hand, have something of significance to work with."

Lestrade took a step backwards, arching a brow as he lifted his arms, slight smile on his face. "Oh I do beg your pardon, please forgive my crude misconception."

"You know Sherlock," John said, suddenly appearing at Sherlock's side, a small grin on his face. "It's how he rolls."

Lestrade stared at John. How had he failed to see him enter the room? Usually the man was an overly loyal shadow (Sherlock's very own Jiminy Cricket, as Lestrade liked to joke), never too far from the detective's side. Perhaps this was due to his muffin intake, or lack thereof to be more specific. He always found his mind would wake up after a mid-morning coffee and sugary cake. It was a natural human process … or maybe just a police thing.

Ignoring all distractions in the room, as is Sherlock's way, he placed both papers side by side. Each contained a photograph of a note. One, supposedly, written by the hand of Caleb Hooper, and the other by Timothy Mackenzie. Within an instant, Sherlock noted the similarities between the notes. Upwards curl at the bottom of the 'h'. No curl on 'y'. Pressure on commas. Correct grammar and punctuation. Full stop at end of note. Signed. Right handed. Male. Unhurried. A correctly worded suicide note, written in a calm manner. Interesting.

"Caleb Hooper did not write this note. He was left handed and this note was clearly written by a right handed grammarian – male obviously," he stated.

"Oh, obviously," John agreed, looking closely at the pictures. Both seemed similar, as if they were written by the same hand, however, that was all he was able to deduce. No doubt Sherlock already managed to discover the occupation of the writer and what they had for breakfast that morning.

"Obviously," Lestrade replied, imitating Sherlock's tone and mannerisms, however, the overly cheesy grin that spread across his face as the words slipped from his lips did not have the same effects. "Now, why didn't we see that?"

"Because we're idiots, Lestrade," John grinned.

It was like working with a bunch of children, only without the inquisitive nature. It reminded him why he preferred to work alone. "Have you quite finished acting like simpletons? I'd like to proceed." Silence was the response. It was the best type of response, in his honest opinion. "Molly, describe both Smith and McElroy in as few words as possible."

Lestrade furrowed his brows. Molly? He was certain that he was not that sugar deprived that he failed to see Molly Hooper, the adorable pathologist from St Bart's Hospital, enter his office.

Curious as to the lack of response, Sherlock turned his head to see Molly walking into the office, two large files in her arms. Trailing behind her like a dog was Anderson, hands full of paperwork. It was obvious that Anderson had dropped the files and Molly, being the easily manipulated being that she was, instantly went to his rescue. "Molly, I would advise against speaking with Anderson, as it appears his idiocy is contagious," he sneered, gesturing towards John and Lestrade with a listless flick of his hand

Anderson mumbled something under his breath as he dropped the paperwork on the desk, delivering a brief glare towards Sherlock.

"Don't mutter, Anderson, its unbefitting and most irritating." Sherlock tilted his head, eyebrows drawing closer together. "I see your wife is away on business again."

Anderson's eyes widened slightly before returning to their usual small size. "Oh, who told you this time?" he asked, crossing his arms, unimpressed.

Sherlock smirked. "No one has to tell me anything because you, or more specifically, Sgt Donovan, make it blaringly obvious. The fact that she's wearing your wife's perfume is a certifiable giveaway. That one you gave her when you went grovelling back last summer - the foul smelling cheap stuff. She has practically bathed herself in it." He leaned closer to Anderson, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Be careful, she'll be stealing her underwear next."

Clenching his fists, Anderson strode out the office, slamming the door shut in an obvious show of his anger. Childish.

"Do you always have to wind him up?" Lestrade sighed.

Sherlock already started separating the information he needed, pushing everything else onto the floor that he knew would not be of importance. "Describe Smith and McElroy in as few words as possible, Molly," he said, repeating his earlier words. He removed the photographic evidence from the Smith Case. Crime scenes. Body pictures. Evidence. How had this been classified as an accidental death? It was preposterous, he grumbled to himself, drinking in all the obvious clues that flew out at him.

"Paul Smith, no relation to Martin Smith by the way, is: Polite. Tall. Skinny but athletic. Meticulous about his appearance. Relaxed but has a temper when pushed too far. Quirky – odd.

"Declan McElroy: Loud. Big boned – more muscle than fat though. Serious. Gets wound up quite easily. All around nice guy, really."

Absently nodding his head, he processed the information Molly gave. He stared at the photographs. No sign of struggle but victim was hit across head hard enough to cause severe trauma. This was premeditated obviously. Windows locked with keys. Doors closed. Nothing stolen – except bracelet. Interestingly enough, Smith is holding an apple in his right hand. Blood two foot from the body. Body had not been dragged though. Dirt marks on window sill. Smith had moved of his own volition. He fell and grabbed window to stop his fall, pulling fruit bowl. Why? Out of all the fruit, why an apple? The must be something of significance to it. In his last moments of life, Smith had done this. This was just like Jennifer Wilson.

"Molly, any nicknames?" he asked suddenly.

"Cox, I think."

"Of course!" he proclaimed, slamming the picture down and pulling out his phone. "He had been telling you all along who his killer was and you all missed it. Imbeciles."

Everyone exchanged glances.

"Care to let us in on everything, Sherlock?" John asked, watching the man parade around the office, muttering loudly to himself.

"It's obvious, John."

John sighed. Sherlock always stated how annoying ordinary people with their ordinary minds were but obviously he did not realise just how annoying he was with his oversized mind that knew everything.

"Molly, find where Connelly and Fletcher's autopsies were performed. I need a blood sample from both. Now."

Molly stood as rigid as a statue for a moment, holding her arms slightly outstretched before dropping them and nodding her head with such ferocity. "Ok. I need to get my phone from the car."

She left the room.

Lestrade had long since taken a seat, watching everything unfold. He was used to Sherlock's antics now. John, however, did not enjoy being out of the loop for too long.

"Sherlock," he warned, voice low.

Replacing his phone, Sherlock regarded John finally. "You and I will analyse the blood samples while Molly will complete a thorough analysis between Hooper and Mackenzie."

John's eyes widened as he listened to Sherlock's smooth, yet demanding voice, give out directions. Did Sherlock not see the flaw with this strategy? Maybe he just did not comprehend?

"I will study the Hooper and Mackenzie files," he said suddenly, picking up both files and sliding them underneath his arms.

Sherlock arched a brow. "That won't be necessary," he told him. "Molly performed the autopsy on Mackenzie. She will know instantly what to examine. Time constraints, John."

"I think you misunderstand, Sherlock. This is Molly's brother and you want her to examine photographs of his … of him…"

"Your point being?"

John wrinkled up his eyebrows, staring at the other man incredulously. "My point being? My point being is that this is not fair on Molly – it's not right. I won't allow you to have her look over these files."

"John, it's logical for Molly to examine the evidence," he sighed, growing increasingly impatient with John.

John shook his head, casting his eyes downwards. "No, it isn't…"

"You're very protective of her," Sherlock observed.

"Of course, she is my girlfriend – I have to protect her."

The dark-haired man stared at the other for a moment before placing his hands in his pockets. "You can't protect her from everything, John."

"I know, but this is a good enough place to start," he breathed, voice no louder than a whisper. "For once, Sherlock, just trust me on this."

John did not see the flash of brief emotion that crossed Sherlock's features, Lestrade, however, did. He watched as Sherlock sighed deeply and turned on his heel, striding out of the room. "Have Lestrade help – you'll take too long."

With that, Sherlock Holmes was gone.

"It's a relief to know just who is in charge here," Lestrade grinned, removing a folder from John's arms. He would not pry any further into what he witnessed. He respected them enough to know when to leave well enough alone. Besides, it was between Sherlock, John and Molly to sort out.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>Sorry it has taken slightly longer to update than usual. I've been out of commission for the past week and finding it difficult to concentrate on one sole thing at a time (mainly this chapter). However, I did find myself writing up an actual plan for this story - just to estimate how long it is going to be. It will be long - 65 chapters long altogether - novel length! Sounds long but I suppose it's because my chapters are short.<p>

Anyway. Not much to say about this chapter - hope it's ok. I kinda wanted a Sherlock and John moment ... just to show how much John does mean to Sherlock, despite how much he may deny it. Feedback would be great though :D

Thanks for the reviews!

**eccentricpetal:** Thank you so so much! Your reviews make me so happy. I understand your prob with Donovan - I have a love/hate relationship with her ... I understand where she is coming from and that she feels that Sherlock isn't helping Scotland Yards rep - BUT why does she have to be such a bitch about it? As for Lestrade - XD He's pure win

**Hellscrimsonangel:** Plot thickening is always great! Thank for the compliments - I'm happy it helps!

**Emptymoon/The Empty Moon**: Wow. I'm slightly overwhelmed by your dedicating in reviewing my story. I'm glad you are enjoying it as much as you are :)

**Tokigami**: I'm positive that Lestrade will make more apperances XD

**Growl Snarl**: Thank you - I'm glad you are enjoying this :D

**lemurs366:** My word - don't get me started on the pairing name debate. Writing Jolly Sherlolly makes me think that this could be the newest line for Wonka Chocolate. Sherlolly sounds too sickly sweet for this pairing. Morlock is better fitting, I think - especially when you consider what Morlocks actually are lol - much darker and very cool - just like this pairing could be XD


	18. Part XVIII

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part XVIII

...

Wrapping a firm hand around the mug, which had yet to become empty, Sherlock brought it to his lips and drank the deliciously strong coffee, not taking the time to savour the aroma as he quickly returned the cup and resumed his work. Alternating between looking down the lens of the microscope, typing away on the computer and making notes on various pieces of paper scattered haphazardly over the desk, Sherlock was oblivious to the world around him. He had long since discarded his phone, throwing it across the table, claiming its incessant noise was a hindrance. That, like all other interferences, were soon brushed aside and forgotten. Sherlock was too lost within the deep crevices of the work, indulging in the facts and drowning in the euphoria that only intensified with each step towards solving the case.

True to her word, Molly had phoned around and found out exactly where Fletcher and Connolly were taken: Hospital of St John & St Elizabeth.

Both of them.

Coincidental indeed.

One taxi journey and fifteen minutes later, both Sherlock and Molly were walking through the entrance of the hospital and towards the Pathology Department to have a word with Dr Robert Green. The meeting did not last long. Dr Green was exceedingly polite and willing provided blood samples from both Fletcher and Connolly, stating that if it helped solve a crime then he was eager to help. Not long after, they left.

Hours later, blood analyses were still being performed. Sherlock had handed Molly the arduous task of analysing the samples they received from St John's, while he performed an experiment of his own. Molly did not question this and promptly began the task, stopping only to refill Sherlock's coffee when it ran dry.

The corners of Sherlock's lips curled as he sat back, bringing his hands together. To say that the achieved results were insightful would be a major understatement. He discovered exactly what he already suspected and more so. It was enthralling to say in the least.

Molly entered the room at that moment, fresh coffee cup in hand, which she placed next to Sherlock and removed his empty cup.

"I've double checked both blood samples and there is nothing unusual or medically out of the ordinary with either of them," she informed him, taking a seat.

Sherlock did not verbally acknowledge that Molly had brought him fresh coffee, once again. "Sodium levels?" he asked.

"Average for both."

"That's very interesting, wouldn't you say, Molly?"

Molly regarded Sherlock with a confused expression. "I don't think I understand – it's just average…"

"Wouldn't one assume that the blood of a person being treated for hypernatraemia would contain higher levels of sodium?" he suggested, lifting the cup and wrapping both hands around it. "Orion Fletcher was, after all, suffering hypernatraemic dehydration in the weeks leading to his death."

Molly absently leaned forward, eyes widening slightly as the realisation finally sunk into her head. "That means…"

"Precisely," he exclaimed, placing the cup down. "These, however, clearly show traces of cyanide in the blood," Sherlock responded smugly, holding two small slides between his fingers. "Fletcher's, as I already expected, contained high sodium levels."

"How did you acquire those…" she started to ask, eyeing the detective curiously.

"Irrelevant. What we…" Sherlock paused mid-sentence when he caught sight of something from the corner of his eye. Turning his full attention to the door, he watched as John walked in, looking relatively worse for wear and smelling like he had just been throwing out of a pub.

"I've been trying to phone you for hours," John exclaimed, taking a breath as he all but collapsed into the nearest chair.

"John, what is that God awful smell?" Sherlock asked, scrunching his nose in disgust.

"Oh that? That would be me, Sherlock," he said, pointing towards himself. "Some nice person on the Tube decided to share their bottle of whiskey with me and then, to show their further gratitude of my company, they threw up on me – don't spray perfume on me, Molly!"

"Sorry, John … you just smell really bad."

John lifted his arm and inhaled. "Great, now I smell like the dog's bollocks…"

"Did you come all this way to complain about your new found state of glory?" Sherlock asked, retrieving his drink, now acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

John shook his head, grimacing. "No, I found something out when I was examining those files. Both suffered from the same cause of death … shut up, Sherlock, I've not finished. I decided to contact the pathologist who performed Caleb's autopsy, Dr Henry Sinclair; however, two days after that event, he was found dead in his home. Interestingly enough, it was Dr Robert Green who performed his autopsy, the very same who now works in St John's and the one who was (is) going to be temping here, at Bart's."

Sherlock listened to John's words closely. They did not shock him. He knew the doctor was involved, if not with the actual deaths, then the aftermath. The fact that he was possibly involved earlier on, however, did cause some concerns.

This case was getting more interesting by the hour.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>I had to re-upload this chapter because of the whole outdated URL problemstory not showing - I checked three computers at my house and couldn't see this chap. Is anyone one else still having this same type of problem?

Short chapter - but relevant to the plot because it gives that added confirmation that I felt was needed.

Originally I was just going to use any random hospital in London (I've only there a few handfuls myself so I don't know them all) but I decided on The Hospital Of St John's and St Elizabeth's as somewhat of a montage to John and baby Elizabeth (couldn't fit Mary in unfortunately) from **eccentricpetal'**s fantastic fic. I saw the hospital name and thought that it was too much of a coincidence NOT to put it in XD (hope you don't mind)

Lastly, thanks to all my lovely reviews and those who have added this to faves/alerts :)


	19. Part XIX

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part XIX

...

John rushed into the bedroom, removing various articles of clothing along the way. He figured he had approximately one minute before Sherlock would grow tired of waiting outside. This would not have bothered John under normal circumstances. He would quickly change his clothes, throwing the worn ones in the washing machine, and leave the flat, buttoning his shirt along the way. That should have been the ideal solution. Unfortunately, John hit a snag after pulling on fresh jeans and throwing his jacket onto the bed.

John's phone vibrated. One new text message. Sherlock no doubt. Had a minute passed already? John ignored it as he continued to struggle with his problem.

"You'd think after thirty-odd years I'd be able to remove a tie," he muttered to himself, groaning as he failed to unpick the knot. Had he been thinking with his head, he may have realised at the time that Molly had pulled his tie to the point where the knot was now tight and excruciatingly difficult to undo. Maybe this was actually karma for all the times he would run around the high school field yelling, "Peanut" at the top of his lungs as he roughly pulled the front folds of student's ties, knotting them tightly. Everyone did that though. He'd Peanut and be Peanutted in return.

His phone buzzed again.

Deciding on a drastic course of action, John leant across the bed, roughly pulling the bedside draw open, feeling around the contents. Loose change (both pound sterling and euros), pens, nail clippers, old batteries, takeaway menus, three door keys (one was for Harry's house and the other two…), and his gun. Despite Sherlock's growing affection for the pistol, John insists on housing it in his bedside table, more for comfort and habit purposes than actual logic.

"Scissors … scissors. Where are the scissors?" John grumbled, pushing aside the coins and batteries. He was growing increasingly annoyed now. He didn't have time to mess about with such trivial things. "If I were a pair of scissors, where would I be? Obviously, not in the place they are supposed to be. So…"

His phone rung. Sherlock must be frustrated if he was resorting to phoning John.

John answered the phone but was not quick enough to voice his response.

_"What is taking so long, John?"_

"Surely it hasn't been two minutes yet – I've been counting the seconds, you know," John replied, leaving his room. He would find a pair of scissors in the kitchen – obviously.

_"We don't have the time for you to squander around the flat."_

Opening the drawers, John narrowed his eyes. Why were things never where he left them? "I'm looking for the scissors, Sherlock. I need to get my tie off."

_"Removing a tie is child's play, John. I'm positive that even you can remove one without the usage of scissors."_

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," he sniggered, removing a knife from the drawer. This was not his first choice, but beggars can't be choosers, as the saying goes.

_"I'd advise you to stay on the line, should you accidently slice open your own neck."_

"O ye of little faith."

"_One minute – no more, no less_."

John disconnected the call, pocketing his phone as he proceeded to remove the tie. With several flicks of his hand, the tie was free from his neck, although it was now useless as a tie and would soon meet the rubbish bin. Pity really, he was fond of that tie. He didn't have a clue how he came to acquire it though. During his university years, he woke up with it around his head after an annual New Year's party.

Suddenly remembering that he was on a timer, John quickly donned a checked burgundy shirt, pulling his black coat off the rack as he left the flat, slamming the door behind him.

"I see you're still alive then," Sherlock remarked dryly as John slid into the car.

"Good deduction that," John replied, smiling.

A minute of silence lingered as Molly started the car, stealing a quick glance in Sherlock's direction as she voiced her thoughts. "Just where are we going?"

"Pembroke Terrance," he simply said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "We are going to pay a little visit to Paul Smith."

Molly nodded, following the orders silently. The atmosphere in the car was sombre. She was an erratic mass of emotions. The mere notion of coming into contact with the person who stole her brother's life scared her more than anything. Panic flew up inside of her. Her stomach churned, jumping in a multitude of directions. A bitter tightness etched its way around her neck and squeezed before moving its way further down and around her heart, squeezing the beating muscle. It rang loudly in her head, burning against her eardrums. Her body ached. Hands shaking, gripped tightly to the leather wheel. She wanted comfort.

She yearned to taste her mother's overly-sweet cakes.

She wished to see her brother's carefree smile.

She longed to smell her father's favorite cologne.

She needed to hear Sherlock's smooth voice.

She wanted to feel John's tender embrace.

Molly pulled the car to a halt. They were here. The building loomed ominously over her. Windows were covered in a layering of newspaper. The hedge was overgrown and mangled. The water-eroded gate hung off its hinges. The paint chipped front door had even lost its gold plaited numbers, replaced with crudely painted signs.

"Do we knock or break in?" John asked, stepping aside to let Sherlock gain full access to the door.

The dark haired man crouched down, fingers delicately opening the letterbox as he slid his hand inside, retrieving a thin piece of card.

"He's not in," he exclaimed, passing the card back to John.

John crossed his arms and leant against the cold brick wall. "Breaking in it is then."

"Well…" Sherlock begun, pushing himself from the ground, shooting a self-satisfied grin in John's direction. "Knocking is ever so boring."

Molly stared aghast at the two men in front of her as they joyfully discussed the finer details of breaking into the house. There must be some mistake. Surely they did not mean it. Breaking and entering was, after all, against the law.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>Darn, my updating of this hasn't been to my usual standards. The main problem of that is that I've somehow knackered my left wrist, thus making typing and general things rather painful. Sucks big time.<p>

Anyway. This is the chapter that never was supposed to be. I only decided at last minute to type this up and upload - just for fun really.

Oh, for those who do not know. **Peanut** is a game/prank played in high schools (mine at least). You would grab your friend's tie, pull the long bit down, which will tighten the knot. Pull hard enough and you could spend a good few hours trying to get your tie off. Yes, I actually had to cut my own school tie off because I was Peanutted to the max... it was the last day of school though so it didn't matter much to me anyway. Good times - was always fun to watch your friend's struggle during class with tie issues.

As always, thanks to all my reviewers, and those who have added this story to faves/alerts :)


	20. Part XX

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part XX

...

Molly stared intently as Sherlock begun the arduous task of picking the lock. It was fascinating to watch him work, even though his current work was inserting a small metal instrument into the lock and twisting it to unlock the many inner pins. To Molly, the way Sherlock held himself and the confidence that radiated off him as he picked the lock reminded her of something straight out of a movie. Sherlock was the hero – or anti-hero to be more specific, which undoubtedly placed John in the obvious position of sidekick. Sidekick sounded far too boring though. Faithful Companion maybe? No, it made John sound more like a loyal pet than sidekick. Trusted Friend? The Watson to Sherlock's Holmes?

The door clicked open.

Without a word, Sherlock strode inside, the door impacting loudly against the wall. John stepped aside, motioning Molly forward with his hand, who forced a small smile in returned. Briefly surveying their surroundings with trained eyes, John smirked. Nothing. Fully satisfied with his lack of anything, he entered the house, closing the door with his foot as he gently slid his hand into the right side pocket of his coat. He slowly made his way through the hallway, absently looking in the kitchen as he passed, before walking into the lounge.

"Very misleading from the outside," John said, staring around the room in wonder. A myriad of urban paintings adorned the elegantly wallpapered walls; lavish oriental rugs covered the wooden flooring and the extravagant furnishings oozed sophistication.

"Hiding in plain sight," Sherlock mumbled, looking around the room, taking in and absorbing every shred of detail he could.

Molly felt uncomfortably out of place – in every sense of the word. Her tired eyes scanned the room before falling on a photograph that was housed in a beautiful glass frame. Her legs moved on their own accord, taking her to the fireplace. With shaking hands, Molly picked up the frame. She knew this photograph. She had this photograph. Biting her lower lip, Molly traced her fingers delicately over the glass, eyes shining with unshed tears. How could Paul Smith have this photograph in his lounge? How could he stomach to look at a photograph that showed images of those he killed? Maybe she was thinking the wrong questions. Instead of how, she should think about why. Why did Paul Smith have this photograph? Did it help motivate him to kill for some silly beads?

A flash of anger and resentment coursed through her veins with a sharp precision as she threw the frame to the ground, causing shards of glass to erupt from the picture. She fell to her knees, shoulders shaking. She hadn't wanted this to happen. Not now. Not ever. She was unsure of what to expect when she followed Sherlock. In reality, she should have declined and left. Gone home. It was easier said than done though.

Creaking floorboards above caused her head to snap upwards, eyes widening in terror.

"It's only John," Sherlock said suddenly.

Molly turned abruptly, not expecting to hear or feel Sherlock so close to her. He was kneeling next to her. When had he?

Brushing the shattered glass aside, Sherlock removed the photograph from the mess and folded it into a square, slipping it into Molly's pocket as he pulled her up with him.

"Thanks," she mumbled, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock watched Molly. She was evidently distressed. His comforting skills, however, were virtually non-existent. He had never felt the need to comfort anyone. He did not see the need to. He had witnessed John comforting Mrs Hudson when her sister had been rushed to hospital. Likewise, he had witnessed John in a state of distress on many occasions, the current being a bout of war related nightmares that had been triggered by a recent news broadcast from Afghanistan. He would drag himself from his bedroom and sit in the darkened lounge, staring into nothingness. On the occasions where he would be in the lounge with John, Sherlock would find himself playing the violin, manipulating the strings to form soothing sounds. Perhaps if he found solace in the instrument, then maybe the music would bring some comfort to John.

Nevertheless, Molly was not John. He also would not apply John's method of comfort either - hugs, tea and strong herbal soothers. Nonsense.

Finding himself at some form of a loss, Sherlock turned from Molly. Hopefully John would return soon and take over. This was John's area, not his.

A loud sound caused him to stand alert. It was a sound that could have only been produced from that of a falling body. The velocity of the sound and vibrations from the ceiling told him all he needed to know. He knew the gender, weight, height of the person, as well as the distance they fell and the exact speed. He knew exactly who had fallen to the ground a floor above them.

"John!" he shouted, lunging towards to door instantly.

"Bloody Hell! It's okay – I just … tripped…" a recognisable voice shouted.

Sherlock found himself rolling his eyes as he heard John scramble around before descending the stairs and entering the lounge once again.

"Nothing up there at least," John said, hands thrust deeply inside his pockets.

"Obviously." Sherlock moved to Molly's side. "You might as well stop hiding because I know exactly where you are," he said aloud. "You knew I would be coming."

Molly stared in shock, subconsciously moving closer towards Sherlock.

A door slowly opened. Standing in the doorway with a cricket bat lodged firmly in his hands was a tall stranger. He was dressed impeccably in a pinstriped shirt and dark jeans, blond hair trimmed neatly and a pair of dark glasses covering his eyes. Flexing his fingers on the bat, he took a step forward, preparing to pounce on the first person who could reach.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," John said in a dangerously low voice, arms outstretched, gun firmly in his grip.

Smith showed a row of teeth as he grinned widely. "You don't scare me, Sunshine. Have you forgotten what I've done – it's why you're here, after all," he sneered, voice laced with venom. "You can make my death count six if you like … it will be my pleasure…"

"That's hardly anything to brag about."

"Oh, but it's _so_ much fun," he laughed bitterly, tilting his head slightly. John did not reply. "Has all your fight burnt out? So soon? Shame."

"This isn't a game you should be playing because you're bound to lose," John replied, staring intently at Smith, fingers caressing the cold metal in his hands.

Smith smiled, voice full of mirth. "Do you think so?"

"I know so," he said suddenly, corners of his lips curling. "Because I guarantee that I will shoot you down before you strike me."

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>Well, this is the actual chapter I should have uploaded yesterday. I enjoyed writing this so much because it gives each character more depth than they have shown so far. Plus, I wanted to give John some badass scenes - similar to the ones we witness in the series :D Also, Sherlock's cluelessness about emotions was interesting to say the least. Molly is not an intricate part of his life (yet), unlike John and Mrs Hudson ... so while he would be able to some form of comfort to them, Molly is new territory for him. Also, despite Mycroft stating that John doesn't have PTSD, I do believe he still suffers small bouts that can easily be triggered. My theory at least.<p>

Oh, also added my first OC. Scary.

As always, thanks to my readers, reviews and everyone adding me to faves/alerts.


	21. Part XXI

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part XXI

...

The gun fired.

Molly jumped at the sudden sound. She had not expected John to fire, assuming him to be calling Smith's bluff. How wrong she was. She should have known from the hard gleam in his eyes and firm stance in his body that he was not bluffing. This John Watson that stood before her now was not the John Watson that she knew. No, this was the deep-rooted solider that resided in John's heart. This was the solider that, whenever Molly curiously enquired, would smile gently and change the conversation. Molly understood though. She knew the importance of protecting oneself against the world. It was human nature in its rawest form.

Molly stole a glance towards Sherlock. He was indifferent to John. Obviously, Molly deduced, Sherlock was familiar with the solider, comfortable with his presence and contingent of his wills. He was not afraid to rely on John, holding no hesitations as they worked in complete harmony, complementing each other perfectly. He accepted John Watson fully, while the other fully accepted Sherlock Holmes. Each was the yin to the other's yang.

Smith turned his head, staring intently at the splintered hole in the doorframe just inches from his head. His dark glasses concealed the expression that crossed over his vision and his body language remained perfectly collected. He smirked.

"You missed," he mocked confidently, the cockiest of smiles tugging his lips upwards.

"Oh?"

Smith could not do anything to stop the tensing of his facial muscles as he turned his head fully to examine the damage, rough splints surrounding the hole. He saw no other damage. Smith lowered his arm, the base of the bat touching the ground.

"You're no threat," he sniggered, tapping the bat on the floor.

John smiled. "Just because I'm the one holding the gun, doesn't automatically make me the threat."

Before Smith had the chance to respond to John's cryptic remark, strong hands latched tightly around his wrist, dislodging the bat from his loosened grip. His arm was twisted, forced firmly behind his back, shoulders burning. A body stood behind him.

"Lowering your guard in a room full of people? Does television not teach you anything?" Sherlock spoke into Smith's ear, pulling his arm tighter.

Smith groaned as he collided with the ground, the impact causing the glasses to fly from his face.

"I assume you know why we are here, Mr Smith?" Sherlock asked, crossing his arms.

Smith placed his hands firmly on the ground before pushing himself up, legs swinging underneath his body as he jumped to his feet, retrieving his glasses in the process. Once standing, he tidied himself: tucking his shirt in, straightening his collar and brushing down his trousers.

"Oh, I certainly know why you're here, Mr Holmes…" he smiled, placing the glasses back on his face. "…Dr Watson."

John's brows knitted together as he regarded Smith with a confused expression. "Wait – so you know who we are?"

"I live in a suburban palace," he smiled, gesturing to their current surrounding, "Not under a rock."

"Right … viral blog…"

"I suppose you want an explanation of some kind? Unless, of course, you have come to give _me_ an explanation of my actions?"

Sherlock did not answer right away. While it was true that he did know Smith's motive and reasoning – it was painstakingly obvious after all – he wanted to hear it for himself, partly to quench his own curiosity and partly to provide Molly with a small sense of closure.

He watched Smith, observing every gesture and each movement. His calm behaviour did not strike Sherlock as odd. No, he struck Sherlock as someone who had nothing to lose. The evidence was surrounding them. Every item in the house was materialistic. No memorabilia, asides from that one photograph, which indicated estranged family – more than likely his choice. House (not home) filed with classic 'boy's toys' – no solid female presence or relation in at least ten years. Meticulous about appearance – dresses for self. Self-employed – freelance interior decorator, considerable experience. A materialistic being in every sense of the word.

Nothing to lose, but everything to gain. That had been his thought after that first murder and was more than likely the same thought currently circulating his mind at present. Overconfidence was his main downfall … that, and the unforeseen involvement of Molly Hooper.

"I suppose you know about Diana's pearls?" Smith asked, casually throwing himself down onto the sofa, crossing his legs and resting his outstretched arms on the back. He looked at each person. Sherlock, a grimace plastered across his face, arms at his sides. John, standing rigid beside the door, eyes locked with his own, arms crossed, gun loaded and at the ready. Finally, a female he did not recognise, eyes cast down, brown hair bunched up and hands balled into fists.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied.

"Then you _obviously_ know their value."

Sherlock sighed, thrusting his hands into his pockets, directing a condescending glare towards Smith. "I would advise against wasting my time."

Smith grinned. "Then I don't need to go into detail then – a summary should suffice.

"We acquired the pearls during a holiday in Blackpool – the seven of us. We had no idea that these were genuine at the time … they just looked like cheap tat, which I assume you agree with? Anyway, I found out a few days after we purchased the bangles. The kid who sold them too us explained everything. His father was an accomplice to the robbery and the kid stole them, looking to get some fast cash. He was obviously scared shitless, begging for the bangles back. I said no, of course."

"No wasn't the only thing you said, was it?" Sherlock inquired, voice deep, taking a step to the side.

Smith sucked a breath of air through his teeth and over his tongue, making an audibly squeaking noise. "Nope. I couldn't have him running back to daddy now, could I? He was met with a unfortunate end – tram accident. Tragic really…"

"How very convenient."

"Very. I didn't tell the others – why should I? I let it die down for a few months but I was constantly thinking about it. In the end, I decided to take action. I told one of the lads everything and asked for his bangle. _Obviously,_ you know the answer. No. Apparently it was a Christmas present for his sister so he was reluctant to part with it. His death was an accident, you know…"

John faltered, unlocking his arms, striding forward. "How on earth can you _accidently_ strike someone down and then inject cyanide after their death?"

"You tell me – you're a doctor after all…" Smith grinned, leaning forward, looking over his glasses to meet John's angered expression.

"What is your connection to Dr Green?" Sherlock asked.

"No real connection. I found out he has a mountain of debt and agreed to help him out when the time came."

"Blackmail."

"No, it was just a matter of convenience. Luck was on my side – well, until it was revealed that Cale didn't commit suicide. Foul play and suspicious cause of death, they said. I honestly thought I was screwed over then – even prepared myself to be brought in."

Smith pushed himself from the sofa, removing his glasses fully and balancing them on top of his head. Sliding his hands in his pockets, he walked around the room, broad smile cracking his features. "The case was shelved though. I took that as a sign – I could get away with murder…"

Molly sucked in a breath, shoulders trembling. How could he speak so casually of her brother? How could he be so callous? "So you decided to play God then? Taking life into your own hands – dealing out the cards of death at your own discretion?"

"Oh, this kitten has claws," Smith laughed gleefully. He had actually forgotten all about the female that accompanied the other two, especially as she had failed to make an impression, vocally at least. He walked, an energetic hop present in his step, towards Molly and reached out, ruffling her hair and caressing her cheek.

His right arm was roughly grabbed and he felt himself being dragged to the side. "Don't be so pretentious," Sherlock scowled furiously, brows wrinkled in displeasure.

"All right – chill out!"

Sherlock grabbed the front of Smith's shirt and drew him close enough to hiss vehemently in his face. "I mean it – don't try my patience."

Smith merely nodded. Sherlock forced him away, watching with a satisfied glint in his eyes as he tripped and fell back onto the sofa.

"I believe it is now my turn to speak," he said shooting a quick look in John's direction. The other was seething, swallowing his anger and resentment as best he could, leaning with his shoulder pressed firmly against the door. He tore away, turning his full attention back to Smith. "Your plan was flawed because you still don't have the genuine pearls, despite having acquired all the bracelets, do you? If you had been as meticulous with your crime as you are with your appearance, you would have noticed that the bracelet you acquired from Caleb Hooper was different."

Smith sat forward, eyes wide, mouth open ajar. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock pulled the bracelet from his pocket, holding it. "Each contained ten black pearls. Each woven with black twine. Each attached with a golden clasp. How did you fail to notice that the bracelet you stole contained nine navy beads, was woven with matching twine and did not contain a golden clasp?"

Smith faltered, biting his lower lip.

"You, obviously, underestimated Caleb Hooper. He purchased a replacement bracelet, leaving the evidential receipt in a journal, and hid the original. He was prepared. He was also fully aware that he contained the original pearls, which he did, eventually, leave to his younger sister. He bested you, Mr Smith. This," he said, turning the bracelet over, "is the genuine pearl bracelet that originally belonged to Princess Diana."

"That's…"

"This now belongs to Molly Hooper," he said softly, taking Molly's hand and placing the bracelet in the palm.

Smith stood up. "Molly? Cale's little sister Molly?"

"The very same," Molly smirked, closing her fingers tightly around the bracelet. All this time … she had no idea…

Smith looked around anxiously, flexing his fingers. He breathed heavily. He could not lose – not now he was so close…

Furiously, he jumped from his place and snatched the bracelet from Molly's grip, pushing her to the ground, not looking back as she collided with the table edge, groaning in pain.

He ran out the door.

John dashed forward, only to be pushed back as Sherlock hurried past him. "Stay here with Molly, John. Under no circumstances are you to leave this room – do you understand?"

"Sherlock, I don't-"

"Just do it!" Sherlock shouted back, leaving the house to pursue Smith.

"God damn it!" John exclaimed, violently, clenching his right fist as he rushed forward and fell to his knees, gently taking Molly's head in his hands, lifting her head to meet his vision.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p>

* * *

><p>I didn't realise that it had been nearly two weeks since I uploaded. I've been busy - working all Easter Weekend on regular pay ... I envy all those who get paid extra for working bank holidays. Ah well.<p>

Well, I decided to add a 'little' angry Sherlock into the mix because there so wasn't enough of that in the series. I pray that there is more in series 3 - maybe something could happen to Molly or John and Sherlock can then go all psycho on the current baddies ass XD Oh yeh.

Also, something bad has happened. John x Molly, which I am now dubbing Johnolly (coz Jolly sounds silly), has become my Sherlock OTP . I wouldn't mind but I only originally stuck them together to be act as a catalyst for Sherlock. Come back to me beloved Sherlolly pairing - don't become second best.

Anyway, I'm certain the next chapter won't take as long.

As always, thank you to me lovely reviews and those who fave/alert the story - love you :D


	22. Part XXII

...

The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part XXII

...

Smith ran. It was inevitable really. When one is staring at what one has always desired...

It was a mistake. He had made a crucial mistake. It even took a bon-a-fide detective to point out his error. How amateurish did that make him feel? Sixteen years. He had dedicated sixteen years of his life to this. He spent restless nights meticulously planning, precariously fine tuning the details and drowning in fantasies of finally arriving at a mercenarian god-like state of complete self-actualisation.

He was too far gone to look back and throw it all away. What would be the point in that anyway?

Pointless.

No, he was anything but pointless.

He was everything.

This pathetic world needed him – needed more people like him. He saw what he need and he reached out and grasped it, caring little of consequences.

He had always been an optimistic and audacious child and that drive only grew strong with each passing day. The childish wills did not abandon him. They made him. Completed him.

Smith caressed the pearls with soft and delicate touches. His whole life in ten small pearls. He had lost more than just sleep on his life's goal to possess these ... these...

Yes, he was finally complete.

He made his decision.

No, the decision made him.

Somehow...

These pearls were his everything. He was nothing without them. He would not lose them.

Not now.

Not ever.

He made his life. Fulfilment. Achievement. Everything.

Gratuitous fulfilment?

No.

Yes.

So be it.

* * *

><p>John examined Molly. He carefully lifted her head, subconsciously caressing her cheek in the process. He checked her eyes, examined her for any bruising before gently sliding his hand in her hair, feeling the area where she impacted with the table. A forming lump and small bruising but no blood. That was a good sign at least.<p>

"Molly?" he said softly.

She groaned but looked at him. Confusion filled her eyes for a moment before she sat up fully, instantly regretting it a second later.

John gently pushed her back, taking her hands in his.

"Can you remember what happened?" he asked. He instantly diagnosed her with concussion; however, at this point he was not certain of the severity.

"Which point?" she murmured, closing her eyes several times, trying to focus. Her head hurt, that much was obvious. She knew that she had been pushed into the table and sustained a slight head injury. Concussion? That explained a lot. "I remember that smug bastard – Smith. He was bragging and gloating about what he'd done – makes me sick. He got agitated. I think Sherlock was antagonising him in some way. He panicked, pushed me, stole the bracelet back and belted it out of here. Sherlock then ran after him – Sherlock?" her voice panicked as she forced himself forward, looking around the room anxiously. Her breathing laboured. "Sherlock..."

John steadied Molly, trying to keep her still. It didn't help that she was fighting with him and pushing herself up. "Careful..."

"We have to help. He needs our help. We need to go after him. We have to help." Her words were said with such alarming emotion, fiery passion and dedication. She stumbled as she used the sofa to push herself up, thankful that John's reflexes were swift.

"You can't go anywhere at the moment – wait for Lestrade..."

The look that Molly shot in his direction caused John to recoil slightly. Hurt. She did not understand why he was reluctant to go after Sherlock. They were friends – almost brothers.

Did she truly not understand that there was nothing he wanted more than to be at Sherlock's side, providing extra assistance if need be. It was almost second nature for him to follow Sherlock. He expected it. Sherlock expected it. However, Sherlock surprised him by actually vocalising his desire for John to remain still with Molly. The words alone were not enough to faze John. No, it was the look that Sherlock briefly shot in his direction shortly before departing that caused the cogs to turn. Sherlock was well aware that he would follow regardless. It made John overly curious. Too curious.

Maybe Sherlock was just worried for Molly. John knew from first-hand experience that Sherlock, when threatened, would play the game, dodge the bullets and make snipes. However, threaten someone close to Sherlock and the game ends instantly – points automatically rallying in Sherlock's court. Game, set and match to Sherlock Holmes.

John did not want to leave Molly alone. He would not leave her alone. He was a doctor and she was his current patient. A doctor doctoring another doctor – almost laughable in most ways, he imagined.

Molly fought against John. It wasn't hard anyway – John's grip on her wrist was extremely lax. It did the trick though. She ran, biting back the feelings that coursed throughout her stomach and head. Sherlock needed help – Smith was a certifiable lunatic who was more than capable of doing unspeakable things.

It happened in slow motion, like one of those overrated Hollywood movies with too high a budget. John felt Molly tremble and pull but he was too busy mulling over Sherlock's words. Stupid, he chastised himself for making such a foolish mistake.

Molly was gone.

Out of sight.

John was prepared to chase after her when he caught something from the corner of his peripheral vision: a saucer with two soiled teabags on it. Something clicked. He looked frantically around the room. Everything screamed at him. It was blindly obvious. The teabags. The cups. The coats that he saw hanging up in the hallway. The still fresh dirty footprints on the carpet.

This must have been what Sherlock knew.

John knew if he was only just seeing the signs then Sherlock would have noticed the moment he entered the room.

_"Stay here with Molly, John. Under no circumstances are you to leave this room – do you understand?"_

_"Sherlock, I don't-"_

_"Just do it!"_

Sherlock's words run in his head, one significant word standing out over the others – room. Sherlock was adamant for John not to leave the room - not house. Why confine him to a singular room of an empty home?

Unless...

It was so obvious.

Painfully obvious.

He was not alone in the house.

* * *

><p>To be continued<p>

* * *

><p>Well, this has taken me quite a while because my computer became ill and kicked the bucket - he was only young too :(<p>

Anyway, here is the next chapter. It is short but significant - remember that people.

Also, there is something that I am genuinely curious about. After looking through an array of profiles on here, it has come to my attention that almost 99.9 percent of the Sherlock fandom are obsessed with Benedict Cumberbatch. Cumberbitches, I believe they are called - best fan name EVA! I am not so I am wondering if that is normal - am I that lone 0.01%? I wouldn't have recognised his face (voice, yes - Cabin Pressure fan here) in anything else. It shocked me to realise that I used to watch him on Fortysomething years ago. Anyway, I much prefer Martin Freeman - gosh, he certainly has gotten better with age XD

Lastly, thanks to my reviews and those adding me to fave/alerts.  
>Finally, a massive thank you to <strong>MrsMonster<strong> ( wont let me put a . in your name), who has agreed to take on the arduous task of proof reading this - thanks XD


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